


The Noblest of Animals

by scarlett_the_seachild



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Abuse, Demigods, Drug Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Is that a thing, It is now, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder Mystery, Prostitution, Serial Killer, Slight Age Difference, Social Services AU??, overt and very angry politics, superhumans, supernatural law drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: In which Patroclus is a legal assistant in a family solicitors, completely unqualified to deal with the latest case: a troubled mother and her son; a juvenile delinquent with a fierce intelligence and a penchant for mischief.At first glance it's a simple matter: fight for the family's right to stay together. However, a strange chain of  gruesome and seemingly unconnected murders suggest a threat darker than any Achilles or his mother have yet to contend with, particularly as it becomes increasingly apparent that there is something not quite normal about this particular brilliant boy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Last year I worked in a family solicitor's firm as an assistant and it's safe to say I learned a lot; what how people take their coffee tells about them as a person, the Care System and it's intrinsic problems and failings, family justice and justice in general, what impact people's upbringings and experiences have on their development. The things I learned then continue to fascinate me and I've been itching to write a story based on them for some time, using characters I know and love. 
> 
> Before you decide to read this however, please be aware that this is not a simple love story. While there will be on some level a romance, it will be fraught with complexities and it's own issues which are more meant to provoke thought and maybe even debate rather than just entertainment. Although absolutely nothing will happen while Achilles is a minor, it's worth remembering that he's still a very vulnerable individual and a lot of how he relates to people are a direct consequence of his own deeply problematic experience. It's also worth remembering the same of Thetis, before anyone thinks to judge her or anyone else (real or fictional) in her situation.
> 
> Note: every name, apart from obviously recognisable characters from fandom, is made up from random generator. I haven't and will not disclose anything that isn't knowledge publicly available.
> 
> Title is taken from a quote by Aristotle - "At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst."

Not that anyone would take him seriously if he voiced this out loud, but Patroclus is genuinely concerned that he might be allergic to Mondays. And he doesn’t mean this in the all-encompassing, solidarity with the human race “Oh, Mondays suck” kind of way because, yes, actually, this is not news to anyone. But he was reading up on something in _Psychology Today_ about how the brain can form these irrational barriers against random stimulus and convince itself that it’s sick, thus producing the appropriate symptoms from the body, and really that would provide the perfect explanation for how much Patroclus really, _really_ bloody hates the first day of the week.

He groans and rubs hard at the back of his neck as he waits, eyes half closed, for the kettle to boil. Stiffness in neck. Headache. Itchy eyes. Dry mouth. Nausea. He’s so obviously sick it’s a wonder he came in today. In fact, maybe he should leave at lunchtime, take the rest of the day off. He has a paper in for Wednesday which he’s barely even started, as well as two chapters to read on trade law under the British Commonwealth. That’s right, if a solid 300 pages of theoretical reading wasn’t torture enough it just had to be a colonialist eulogy. Patroclus thinks it would be excessive and somewhat undermining of real struggle to say that he would “rather die” than write a serious commentary on the set text. But nevertheless, the struggle is _real._

The kettle boils and Patroclus whispers a sweet halleluiah to the too bright fluorescent lighting. He takes two mugs, a Batman and a Robin out from the cupboard under the sink (not a hygienic place to keep crockery _why won’t anyone take him seriously?)_ and sets them on the counter before reaching for the coffee and spooning a healthy amount into each. In the Robin mug he adds a teaspoon of sugar, in Batman’s none. Both are black.

He adds the hot water and the steam rises with a slight hiss; Patroclus actually sighs with relief, taking a second to inhale the rich, slightly acidic smell of ground coffee beans, settling on the air and steadily filling the tiny yellow kitchen. As the air directly in front of him begins to warm he can already feel his headache easing. If anything, this just improves his theory. For sufferers of Monditis: medicate regularly with strong coffee. The cure. The miracle. The one true salvation.

Stirring the coffee absently, Patroclus takes a second to look out the window onto the street below. He can see some of his colleagues drawing up in their cars, desperately cruising along the road for a space. The office car park is reserved for partners only; Patroclus can see it from the window by his desk, currently packed with Audis and Lexus and BMWs, hoods glittering like the shells of many jewelled insects. There are no BMWs from this window, only a beaten old pram pushed by a marching woman and a bin lorry hoovering up the refuse of the weekend. On the other side of the street doors are opening, signs are being turned displaying the single word: _Open._ The new day begins.

Coffees in hand he walks back to his desk, nodding or mumbling a “good morning” to the colleagues that pass him on the way to the printer or fax machine. His desk is in the annex, shoved into the very back (or “darkest depths” as Briseis is fond of saying) of the office and it feels like a mile before he’s reached it. The space is tiny and absolutely in no way big enough for the two desks rammed into it, buckling legs practically balancing against each other for survival. It’s also immensely cluttered, the surfaces invisible for the bursting stacks of orange folders, kept from splitting only by the noble efforts of straining rubber bands; files and documents spilling from every cabinet, the doors of which no longer close and the shelves around them groaning with full binders, threatening to rain down should anyone close the door a little harder than usual.

About once a month the chaos gets too much and Briseis has a breakdown, after which she will resolutely leap up and tackle the administrative inferno as best she can, subduing it into some form of order. Within a week however the wilderness always comes back and her shoulders slump at her desk, defeated.

Briseis is at her desk now, however her shoulders are far from slumped. Her fingers fly across the keyboard as she types out the attendance note laying amongst piles of lined paper beside her. Patroclus sets down the Batman mug at her elbow before climbing over a cardboard box full of bundles to reach his own.

“Thanks,” says Briseis, barely pausing in her stride to glance up at him.

Patroclus raises his mug to his lips. “You’re up early,” he comments. He usually arrives before Briseis on the account of the bus. Briseis drives so she usually arrives a little after 9 o’clock but he, you know, can’t.

Briseis nods. “Had to get this out of the way,” she replies, nodding at the attendance note. “We’ve got a fucktonne of new clients, plus a conference at lunchtime. And I’ve got to go to Court in the afternoon.”

“You could have let me do the attendance note,” Patroclus frowns at what appears to be the minutes from a Pre-Proceedings meeting.

Briseis shook her head. “It would have taken you hours to decode my handwriting,” she replies. “God knows why I was in such a bloody rush. It looks like Old Norse.”

Patroclus can confirm this, however he thinks Norse is self-generous on the account that it is, in fact, a recognisable language. Briseis takes a break from her typing to reach for her coffee, pausing suspiciously before raising an eyebrow at Patroclus. “No sugar, right?” she asks.

“Dude, that was _one time,”_ Patroclus rolls his eyes.

“You mean the one time you tried to _poison me.”_

“It’s sugar, not arsenic.”

“It’s a sceptre of imperialism and I’ll not have ado with it.”

“Right, so I’m guessing the brownies you brought in on Friday were charged with what, pixie dust?” Briseis looks sheepish which she should because, like, idiot. “Also can we stop pretending this is about imperialism and call it what it really is. We know you’re from Ankara, dude. You don’t have to prove it by drinking battery acid.”

Briseis draws herself up, haughty. “I’m not _proving_ anything,” she replies with dignity. “I’m just saying adding milk and sugar is a Western abomination.” She takes a sip of her coffee and wrinkles her nose. “As it is, this shit is an affront to Turks everywhere.”

“It’s Nescafé,” Patroclus tells her. “Not Nes _kahve.”_

Briseis sticks her tongue out at him.

“How was your weekend?” she asks taking another sip, apparently now having made peace with any political or cultural objections in favour of the singular joy of pure, unadulterated caffeine. “Any misadventures I need to know about? You know, to keep up my street cred.”

“Not unless your idea of generational rebellion is essay planning and The Office,” Patroclus replies sardonically. “Actually…wait. I went to the pub on Friday. But with my nan. And when I say pub…I mean board game café.”

Briseis pulls a face. “I don’t get why you would want to watch a show about what happens here on a daily basis.”

“It’s the _US_ Office. Practically fantasy. Also literally how can you talk, you watch _Jeremy Kyle.”_

Briseis shrugs, unashamed. “For tips,” she says which is just about the worst thing she could have. “Also guess what, I saw Chelsea Myers on the other day.”

“No _way._ What for?!”

“What do you think? DNA test, obviously. Seeing as the Local Authority wouldn’t pay for one.”

Patroclus makes a noise that somehow manages to convey both sympathy and extreme annoyance. “Wow,” he says. “That’s just…phenomenal. So she can’t afford something the government’s been urging her to get for the past three years so she has to resort to bloody Jezza K?”

Briseis wags her finger at Patroclus reprovingly in response. “Less of the ‘resort’,” she criticises. “It’s a quality show, ok? But yeah, it’s a joke. Oh well. At least she gets her fifteen minutes of fame and prime time on national television.”

Patroclus doesn’t reply. He’s remembering a young woman, only a couple of years older than himself, standing in the lobby and telling off a toddler for shredding magazines. She had looked up and smiled at him when he’d come down to meet her and he remembers how tired the smile was, tired, nervous and polite. He had only met her a few times after that but she’d always spoken courteously to him, likely mistaking him for being a lot higher up than he really was. He thinks about her on Jeremy Kyle, being yelled at for having “Unprotected Sex™” while a middle-class audience shake their heads in condemnation.

“I liked Chelsea,” he says after a while.

Briseis nods. “Me too.”

There’s silence for a while apart from the clattering keys as they drink their coffee and Briseis types. Patroclus sifts through the various notes and bits of paper on his desk, scribbled with tasks for the day. He sets them all in order, starting with Briseis’. Officially he’s not her assistant; as a Trainee Solicitor she’s only one notch in the pecking order above him and the instructions from the actual partners should take precedence. But in reality, and as is made pretty obvious by the Batman and Robin mugs, everyone knows where his loyalties lie. Besides, Briseis gets stuck with more shit than anyone else in the office and the only reason the other solicitors give anything to Patroclus is because their own secretaries can’t be arsed to do it.

There are a couple of letters Briseis has dictated for him on the system. Patroclus rattles them off quickly, barely registering what the recorded voice is actually saying. There was a time, when he first started that he paid close attention to each sentence, going back and checking over every paragraph just in case he’d missed a word. Now he doesn’t even bother and Briseis barely glances over the letters before scribbling _Akhaion Solicitors_ and giving him the thumbs up to send.

Upon his return from the post room, Briseis is engaged in a very angsty phone call. He settles back slowly into his chair, straining to hear what’s being said. Briseis is angry; he can tell because her tone is more clipped than usual and by the time she slams the phone down her dark curly hair is already starting to frizz about her face.

“That bloody woman!” she says savagely. “I am this close, I swear to God, _this close_ from launching a formal complaint!”

“Juno again?” Patroclus asks, already knowing the answer.

“She’s a _bitch,”_ Briseis bites out which is a definite yes before adopting a grating nasal tone. _“‘Ooh, I’m sorry Miss Yilmaz but we haven’t had the Guardian’s report…well I’m not saying that you didn’t send it three days ago but that doesn’t change the fact that we simply don’t have it…_ That’s because you’ve _lost_ it you silly cow, why can’t you just ask for another copy instead of making us look bad-”

“-Me actually,” points out Patroclus. “Seeing as _I_ was the one who sent it.”

Briseis nods aggressively. “Right!” she says. “And then it falls on my head because if you fuck up it’s my responsibility.”

“Because I’m your protégé,” says Patroclus.

“Because you’re my protégé,” Briseis agrees.

She puts her head in her hands and groans for a brief moment before grabbing one of the orange folders from the desk and rifling through it, pulling out a thick stapled document.

“Sorry,” she says, handing it to Patroclus while pulling an apologetic face. “You can take your time with this. Don’t over-exert yourself.”

“Shall I send her two copies?” Patroclus asks, scribbling a reminder to himself on a post-it. “In a really childish display of passive aggression?”

Briseis snaps her fingers, shaking her head in rueful pride. “See, it’s that kind of dark genius which is why I’m making you heir when I’m a partner.”

Patroclus leans across the table to meet Briseis’ knuckles in a fist bump.

“So what’s the 411 on the new clients?” Patroclus asks after adding a second reminder to make two photocopies. “When’s your first appointment?”

“In about five minutes,” Briseis answers, checking her watch. “Initial meeting with a mother and her son but from talking to her on the phone I sort of got the feeling she was thinking of only sending him along. You know, to scout out the turf.”

“Is that allowed?” Patroclus asks in surprise.

“Nope,” replies Briseis bluntly. “He’s sixteen so technically he’s old enough to seek his own representation. Regardless the law would never allow a literal child to be exposed to Care Proceedings without context or supervision. I told her as much on the phone and she did _not_ sound pleased.”

“Well if she’s sending a kid to set up her own legal meeting it’s no wonder the Local Authority have concerns,” says Patroclus.

Briseis wags a finger at him. “No judging,” she tells him. “First rule of being a lawyer. Leave that shit to the Court.”

The phone rings and both Briseis and Patroclus frown at it incredulously, as if it had absolutely no right to be doing so.

“Juno again?” Patroclus guesses.

“If it _is,”_ replies Briseis through gritted teeth, leaving the obvious threat unsaid as she picks up the phone. “Akhaion Solicitors, how can I help?” Patroclus watches the physical transformation of Briseis’ face as it manifests before her eyes; apprehensive boredom turning to open mouthed, wide-eyed shock. _“Shit!”_

She slams the phone down and leaps out of her chair, running a hand distractedly through her hair and muttering _Shit, fuck, shit shit shit fuckety-shit._

“What’s happened?” demands Patroclus because he’s known Briseis for a while now and you know, sometimes he just gets this feeling when something’s up.

“I double- _booked,”_ Briseis says, pulling on her coat and snatching things into her purse. “That was the social worker on the Hadley case. I was supposed to be at the primary school _fifteen minutes_ ago. Ugh, this is the worst! Patroclus, I need you to take care of the Reid meeting for me.”

“What,” says Patroclus stupidly.

“The one I was just telling you about,” replies Briseis, tying her scarf with impatience. “The lady and her son. There’ll be here in like two minutes and I have to _go…_ all you have to do is take down the form, ask the standard questions, get the initial points of the case etcetera. What you’ve done a hundred times.”

“With _adults,”_ Patroclus protests. “Not _children!”_

“He’s _two years younger than you,”_ Briseis rolls her eyes. “Please dude, I’m really sorry but-”

Her mobile rings and Patroclus guesses it’s the client whose child’s school she needed to be at; this is confirmed as Briseis barks “Yes Mrs Hadley I’m _coming,_ hold on,” before stuffing her phone back into her pocket. “Look, I need to go. I can’t give you any more information because there literally isn’t any but look, it’s no biggie. When I talked to her she sounded perfectly…well. She sounded perfectly intelligible.”

This might seem like a kind of odd thing to say but the number of times Briseis has sent Patroclus down to conduct an initial meeting in the past only to have him running back upstairs looking stricken and shaking his head significantly was pushing into the twenties. The way Briseis had hesitated however is doing absolutely nothing for his confidence. Ms Reid might have the mental capacity to instruct, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Patroclus is qualified to see her.

“Fine,” he relents because really what choice does he have, it’s not like anyone else is about to step in. _“Fine._ I’ll do it.”

Briseis blows him a kiss. “You’re a life-saver,” she throws over her shoulder, manoeuvring round the boxes of bundles and already halfway out the door. “I’ll bring you a Twix when I get back.”

“One of the double ones,” Patroclus tells her. “Hey. Is there seriously _nothing_ else you can tell me about these guys?”

“I think the mum’s name is ‘Fetus’!” shouts Briseis from the corridor and honestly Patroclus wishes he hadn’t asked.

He groans, cursing Briseis, Mondays and Alexander Graham-Bell, scientist, engineer and inventor of the working telephone. He is not paid enough for this. He doesn’t care if he’s only eighteen, doesn’t have a degree and mostly got this job down to pure sympathy and nepotism. He deserves a raise.

A minute later the phone rings again and it’s reception saying they have a woman and her son here to see Briseis. Patroclus thanks them, tells them he’ll be down shortly and hangs up. Then he takes a brief moment to shake his fist at the ceiling before grabbing his notebook and making his way downstairs.

The receptionist smiles at Patroclus as he enters the waiting room and the woman standing at the desk turns around. She is young, Patroclus would guess about thirty-five but with an expression belonging to someone much older. Her eyes, set into a sharp-chinned, slightly pinched face are hard and flinty as grey stone. Her hair is long and black, falling in straight lines over stark collarbones which stick out prominently over her faded pink vest, the hem of which falls just above her belly button to reveal a glittering stud. Her thin legs are clad in tight jeans and her skin is pale, possessing a slight sallow tinge except for where there are dark shadows under her eyes.

She eyes Patroclus warily as he approaches her, hand outstretched. “Hi, Ms Reid? Sorry, Briseis is busy with another appointment right now so I’ll be seeing you instead.”

The woman looks at Patroclus’ hand, hesitating before taking it. “You’re my lawyer?” she states, deadpan. Her grip is very strong.

“Er, no,” Patroclus replies, trying not to wince. “I’m an assistant. But I’ll be taking your initial details and general information for Briseis when she gets back. Is that alright?”

The woman is silent and for a moment Patroclus thinks she’s going to say no, it isn’t alright, not in the slightest. Finally she nods briskly, more of an upward jerk of her chin than anything else before crossing her arms over her flat chest.

Patroclus feels all of a sudden very intimidated and more than a little uncomfortable. He clears his throat, hoping somehow that the action will dispel the awkwardness. “Where’s your son?” he asks.

“In the loo,” the woman answers shortly. “I’ll call him.”

She marches over to the men’s toilet and, before Patroclus can say a word against it, knocks abruptly on the door. “Achilles!” she barks. “Hurry up.”

A moment later comes the sound of flushing and then a running tap. The door opens and a boy emerges, drying his hands on his jeans. Catching sight of Patroclus his brow wrinkles in confusion and he turns towards his mother.

“I thought we were seeing a lady?” he asks.

“Sorry,” says Patroclus. “You’ve got me instead.”

The boy, Achilles, looks at Patroclus, giving him a long glance up and down. His lip quirks. Feeling suddenly self-conscious Patroclus turns away, gesturing at them both to follow him.

The consolation rooms are small and, apart from the blue carpeting and computer, not dissimilar from a prison custody suite. Briseis had tried to spearhead a redesigning of the lower floor to make it less “foreboding” but so far hadn’t got further than making a collection for flowers to be put in each of the rooms. Now, a sad pot of plastic hydrangeas sits beside the computer mouse which the woman frowns at accusingly before taking the seat across from Patroclus.

“Ok Ms Reid,” Patroclus begins, taking out the standard meeting form out of his notebook and setting it in front of him. “If you’d just answer a few basic questions-”

“-Nereida,” she interrupts him sharply.

Patroclus blinks. “Sorry?”

“My name. It’s Nereida.”

“Ok Nereida, if you’d answer-”

 _“No._ My surname is Nereida, not Reid. Thetis Nereida. Thetis is fine.”

The boy makes an amused sound that at once has Patroclus’ cheeks growing warm.

 “Right,” Patroclus nods, trying not to show his embarrassment. “Sorry. I think Briseis…she must have heard you wrong on the phone.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman says, clipped. Impatient. “Carry on.”

Ruffled, Patroclus lowers his gaze back the form. “So fetus…THETIS,” he cringes as Thetis grits her teeth and the boy snickers louder. “Sorry. Thetis Nereida…and that’s your, erm, maiden name, right? Cool. So, er, date of birth?”

“3rd of November, 1983.”

“Right, so you’re thirty-four. And your son?”

“Achilles Nereida. March 11th 2001.”

Patroclus whips his head up from what he was writing to stare at Thetis. “He’s fifteen?”

Thetis looks discomforted for a moment but before waving her hand dismissively, a flash of scarlet nylon. “What’s a month or so?”

“Legally quite a lot,” Patroclus explains. “At sixteen you can apply for legal aid, move out of the family home, go to prison, partake in sexual relations-”

Achilles makes the same amused noise, louder than before. Thetis glances sharply at him. “Stop it,” she snarls. “I told you, this is serious.”

“Come on,” Achilles rolls his eyes but he does what he’s told and shuts up.

“Alright, he’s fifteen,” Thetis concedes reluctantly. “But he can still instruct a solicitor, right? He’s still got his rights and everything?”

Patroclus nods. “Yes,” he says. “He can instruct a different one from you, if he wants.”

“No,” Achilles mutters.

“No,” Thetis agrees.

Patroclus makes a note that the boy is a minor and that both he and his mother wish to be instructed by the same solicitor before continuing. Thetis gives her ethnicity (White/Irish), address (local) and job status (hairdresser, part-time) before starting the apparently contentious topic of Achilles’ father. When Thetis says ‘Pelides’ (and Patroclus has never heard a word said with such hatred and disgust and you’d better believe that he’s heard his share of racism and prejudice and God knows what else in a job like this) his hand on the biro freezes. He looks up at Thetis and her lip is curled, eyes narrowed into slits, daring him to say something.

“Pelides?” he echoes. “As in…the businessman?”

 _Businessman._ That’s putting it lightly. The guy owns something ridiculous like five multinational businesses making rubber soles or something equally capitalist and boring. Last time Patroclus looked he was ranked the 200th richest person in the UK and he was recently on the _Apprentice_ as one of the sickening individuals laughing at Alan Sugar’s increasingly unfunny jokes. To be fair, he laughed the least loudly. But still.

“As in the bastard who took advantage of me while I was working as his secretary and left me a single mum, yeah,” snaps Thetis.

And _fuck_ because Patroclus remembers this; watching the _Apprentice_ and that man turned up in his shiny suit and perfectly parted thinning grey hair and his mother had made some kind of comment, about him having not looked nearly so smart bent over a desk with his trousers round his ankles. The scandal had been huge in its day; although Mr Pelides was eventually forgiven by his long-suffering wife, the same could not be said for Thetis. A few months after the affair was made public, she had pressed charges against him for sexual assault. They had fallen through however, and he’d emerged through the “inconvenience” free of all convictions.

“Fuck me,” Patroclus _doesn’t_ say because that would be unprofessional as shit. He is, however, resisting every temptation to Tweet right now. _“Okaaay,”_ he says instead, exhaling slowly. “Erm…do you have your Notice of Proceedings letter?”

Thetis nods and reaches into her pocket, withdrawing a crumpled piece of paper which she hands to Patroclus. Patroclus smooths it out over the surface of the table and skims it quickly, ignoring all the usual formal bullshit until he gets to the actual concerns.

**The Local Authority’s causes of concern include:**

  * **Concern’s regarding mother’s mental health and her ability to safely parent Achilles**
  * **Reports of alcoholism and drug use from the mother**
  * **A number of unidentified male visitors regularly frequenting the property**
  * **Accounts of the mother engaging in prostitution**
  * **Mother’s past criminal offences; including drug dealing, prostitution, shop-lifting and common assault**
  * **Achilles’ low attendance at school**
  * **Achilles’ juvenile criminal offences; including shop-lifting, theft, arson, vandalism, trespassing and general delinquency**
  * **Achilles’ arriving at school with unexplained injuries. The Local Authority has reason to believe they may have been non-accidental.**



**As a result, the Local Authority are putting Achilles on a Child Protection Plan under risk of failure to protect.**

“They think I don’t know how to look after my own son,” Thetis hisses.

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Patroclus explains carefully. “The Local Authority are concerned that you aren’t providing a safe environment for Achilles. They don’t seem to have any problems with your basic care.”

“It’s all _lies_ though!” Thetis nearly shouts. “They’re fucking _liars!_ _Prostitution?!_ I’m not a whore. ‘Unidentified male visitors’. What, I’m not allowed to have friends? And why are they dragging up stuff from my past? It’s not like it effects whether or not I’m a good mum.”

“These are all things you can challenge at the next Child Protection Conference,” Patroclus replies which is lawyer speak for “please don’t hit me”. “Which is…” he checks the letter. “Wednesday. I can go over what to expect with you, if you like?”

“In a bit,” Thetis mutters. “I need a fucking cigarette. Can I leave him with you? Or will that put him _at further risk of danger and emotional neglect?_ ”

“You can leave him here,” Patroclus mumbles.

Thetis rises, tells Achilles to behave (Achilles smirks) and leaves the room, shutting the door with rather more aggression than the old hinges can take. The boy watches his mother go and then he looks back at Patroclus. And Patroclus takes him in properly for the first time.

He is extraordinarily pretty. If Patroclus didn’t know better, he would have assumed he was a girl. His hair is long and blonde, slipped behind his ears to frame a fine-boned, delicate face. He has his mother’s pointed chin and angular cheekbones but his face lacks her harshness, probably on account of his eyes. They are big, long-lashed and green as a cat’s. The whole effect, if he wasn’t wearing a Slipknot hoody and checkered Vans, is one of a Boticelli angel. Or it would be, if his expression wasn’t entirely fitting on a demon from Hell.

Achilles is grinning. For some reason, it makes Patroclus more uncomfortable than anything his mother has said or done so far.

The boy places his feet on the edge of the table and leans back. “You’re not a lawyer,” he states.

Patroclus shakes his head. “I’m a law assistant,” he answers. “Soon to be a paralegal.”

“Why would you want to be a paralegal instead of a lawyer? Isn’t that, like, a secretary with delusions of grandeur or whatever?”

“I’m doing my degree part-time,” Patroclus explains. “Once I pass my exams I can qualify as a trainee solicitor.”

Achilles doesn’t say anything for a moment and Patroclus thinks he’s grown bored when he speaks again and there’s a creeping note of antagonism in his voice. “Aren’t solicitors supposed to be women?”

Patroclus frowns. “What?”

“You know. Solicitors are women. They do all the boring shit, like sending letters and going to meetings and stuff. All the men are barristers.”

Patroclus bristles immediately and the reason it hits is because Achilles is not wrong. In fact, he’s just hit upon a pretty crucial problem within the justice system. It’s even more frustrating to reflect that most of his colleagues are, in fact, women.

“It’s true that a lot of solicitors are women,” he answers, trying to sound diplomatic. “But not all of them. I know a lot of very good female barristers, and some very good male solicitors.”

Achilles snorts. “Bet they’re all gay though.”

If Patroclus had been drinking water, he would have done a spit-take. _“Excuse_ me?”

“Are you gay?”

 _Jesus Christ._ “That is-” Patroclus is spluttering, why is Patroclus spluttering? “That is – _really_ none of your business-”

“Alright calm down,” Achilles rolls his eyes, smirking again. “I was only asking.”

He leans back further in his chair, eyes flickering to the door and looking bored again. Patroclus decides it’s time to steer the conversation out of the deep waters.

“So,” he struggles to keep his voice mild, responsible, adult. “What’s your take on all this, Achilles?”

Achilles raises an eyebrow. It’s a confrontational gesture, a challenge as well as a defence, and Patroclus finds himself quite thrown by it. “‘My take’?” he repeats, adopting an uppity, headmaster’s tone. “On what? The government trying to Child Snatch me from my mum? Yeah not great, I won’t lie.”

It takes a great deal of self-control not to laugh at “Child Snatch”. Weirdly he hasn’t heard that one before, you really think he would have. “No one’s trying to take you from your mum just yet,” he reassures him. “Child Proceedings is a very long process. You have plenty of time to make the changes, convince the Local Authority you can work with them.”

 _“‘Work with them’?”_ Achilles echoes, wrinkling his nose disdainfully. “With those arseholes? I _don’t_ think so. You didn’t see what they were like when they came to my house. That woman...the social worker…she looked like the whole place was covered in shit or something. And the way she spoke to my mum, like she was four. So mum got angry and then the woman filed a report saying that she was being _racist,_ ‘cos she was a Muslim.” Here he breaks off to peer at Patroclus. “Are _you_ a Muslim?”

“No, I’m a Buddhist,” answers Patroclus mildly.

“I just thought cos you’re Indian.”

“Sri Lankan,” Patroclus corrects him. There’s a part of him that expects Achilles to apologise for the presumption (“Not all brown people are from India!” he remembers screeching drunk, stood on a table in Weatherspoon’s and flinging the contents of a goldfish pitcher onto the carpet) however Achilles looks unperturbed, merely shrugging as if it were all the same to him.

“Well anyway this woman _was_ a Muslim and my mum’s not racist, she was just being a bitch. My mum wouldn’t take it so this woman filed a report against her and everything so now we have to have a new social worker or some shit.”

Patroclus nods absently. “Any idea who your new social worker is?”

“Something Olympe,” Achilles replies unconcernedly. “June? Maybe Julie?”

“Juno,” says Patroclus automatically. _Briseis is going to be thrilled._

Achilles shrugs. “Something like that,” he says. “I haven’t met her.”

He stops leaning in his chair and peers at Patroclus again, eyes narrowed in a way that prickles the skin at the back of his neck. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”

Patroclus’ cheeks are saucepans. “I’m sure I’m not about to discuss that with you.”

“You’re very good looking.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Achilles does not look away from Patroclus’ face. The corners of his mouth are pricked teasingly, as if he were playing a game. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Patroclus smiles and looks down at the form in his hands. “Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend?”

Achilles’ eyes widen slightly and Patroclus allows himself a fleeting feeling of triumph before the door opens and Thetis re-enters.

“Give me the bollocks then,” she says, settling back into her chair.

Patroclus spends the next half an hour briefly summarising the process of the next few months. On Wednesday there will be a Child Protection Conference, which Briseis will represent them at, where the Local Authority will go over their concerns in greater detail. Over the course of the next few months there will be a series of further conferences exploring Thetis and Achilles’ progress and whether they have made the changes needed. If they have then the Child Protection Plan may be reduced or dropped completely. If not, then the Local Authority may decide to go to Court.

Thetis listens to this all grim-faced and frowning, interrupting Patroclus only to bark at Achilles to be quiet or stop giggling. When Patroclus is finished she is quiet for a moment before asking: “What about payment? I don’t have money for a lawyer.”

“Because it’s Care Proceedings you qualify for Legal Aid,” Patroclus informs her. “But we’re gonna need some documents from you; birth certificates, wage slips…are you in receipt of any benefits at all?”

“Child support,” Thetis sniffs. “Seeing as his father only remembers to send him pointless shit twice a year.”

“A gecko tank is _not_ pointless shit,” Achilles mutters.

“Ok, well you’re gonna have to bring in your proof of benefits and your bank statements from the past three months,” Patroclus continues. “Briseis or I will call you to make an appointment with her so that you can bring everything in. Once we have that sorted you’re entitled to free legal advice and representation.”

“Thank fuck for the government,” says Thetis sarcastically.

They stand up. Patroclus gets the door and follows them out of the consultation room. Once back in reception Thetis shakes his hand (Patroclus tries not to wince) and thanks him stiffly. Then he turns and sees Achilles also has his hand outstretched, an expression of strained solemnity zipped over his girlish features. Patroclus takes his hand. It is long-fingered, hard-knuckled, warm and slightly sweaty.

“You have my thanks, good sir,” he says, in an adopted voice of ridiculous pomposity. “I look forward to our next meeting with great anticipation.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” replies Patroclus gravely, shaking his hand. “Godspeed.”

Achilles’ eyes glitter with delight and he opens his mouth to say something else when an impatient command from Thetis makes him jump up and hurry to her side. Patroclus watches through the glass entrance as they hurry across the street; Thetis looking angry and apparently ranting while Achilles’ only response is a smirk, his steps jauntily merry as he walks with his hands in his pockets. He waits until they’re out of sight to take the Notice of Proceedings letter from his pocket, reading it over once again before heading upstairs to open a new file.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took a little longer than expected - this actually due to the fact that my laptop broke, rather than my crappy updating skills. 
> 
> thanks for everyone who commented on the last chapter!! I'm aware I'm taking a bit of a risk with this so it's nice to see it's being received well so far :)

By the time Briseis comes back it is 1 o’clock and Patroclus is fishing his lunch out of a Tupperware box.

 _“Three and a half hours!”_ Briseis hisses upon bursting through the door, dumping her handbag onto her desk for punctuation and nearly knocking over a pen-pot in the process. “Can you believe it? I was at that thing for _three and a half hours!_ And a good third of the time was taken up by the Health Visitor alone. Tell me Patroclus, exactly how many syllables are there in the word ‘measles’?”

“That depends,” replies Patroclus, chewing stir-fry thoughtfully. “Can you say it for me in a sentence?”

“I swear to God I’ve never heard anyone speak so slowly in my life. She just droned on and on; I was shitting myself that I was going to fall asleep halfway through her report. By the time we actually got to the confidential slot everyone was too out of it to note a word down. Bloody nightmare.” She shrugs out of her jacket and leans over the desk in order to better peer into Patroclus’ Tupperware, sniffing hopefully. “Did Mamma Mendis make Sri Lankan food?”

“Malaysian,” Patroclus replies. “She’s branching out.”

Briseis reaches into her handbag and pulls out a sad box of wilting salad. “Wanna swap?” she asks, staring at it miserably.

“No one is forcing you to diet.”

“Yes. My poverty,” Briseis counters. “Just you wait, soon as the end of the month comes in I’m buying pavolva. Speaking of sugary and unsatisfying,” she searches through her bag again and withdraws two Twixes which she throws at Patroclus. “I couldn’t find one of the double ones so I got you two. How did the meet go?”

Patroclus catches the chocolate bars, placing them next to his mug for later. “Erm, alright,” he says, after some hesitation. “The mum was a little…standoffish. Like, I’m not a hundred percent sure she’s all human? I mean, I shook her hand and I’m fully sure I felt, like, cyborg bones.”

Briseis nods. “Yeah I got that vibe off the phone,” she confirms sympathetically. “She wasn’t rude to you at all, was she?”

“Oh, no. I mean, she wasn’t exactly overflowing with warmth and affection or anything and she had a few choice words about the Local Authority. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to cross her. But yeah, she was perfectly civil. You know. For a terrifying humanoid.”

“Not one to tread heavily around, got it,” Briseis agrees. “What about the boy?”

Patroclus takes some time before replying, focusing on wrapping noodles round his fork so that he doesn’t have to meet Briseis’ eye. “It was strange,” he says at last. “For one thing, he’s fifteen, not sixteen. So, there’s that. And he’s clearly very bright. But, like, in a kind of weird way? He asked me a lot of really personal questions, you know, not the kind of stuff you suddenly spring out on a complete stranger. It was almost as if he was trying to make me uncomfortable. He also moved from topics really quickly. I don’t think he has much of a filter.”

Briseis nods her understanding, looking very sage. “That’s really common,” she tells him with all of her trainee professionalism. “A lot of these kids have problems with boundaries, either physical or verbal. It’s usually because they weren’t taught to distinguish them from childhood.”

“Yeah I got that vibe,” replies Patroclus, nodding. “And erm, there’s something else. He sort of…flirted with me a little bit.”

He sneaks a look at Briseis, just in time to see her eyebrows fly up. “He _flirted_ with you?” she echoes.

“Well yeah,” Patroclus shrugs casually in a way that says totally normal, no big deal. “Like, he kept trying to find out if I was gay. And he told me I was good looking.”

He’s expecting Briseis to clap her hands and cackle, as she is wont to do whenever he tells her about his romantic endeavours (which usually include him at a club, trying to pry himself away from the clingy embrace of a teary closet bromosexual) or else deliver a grinning mock-lecture against pulling clients. Neither comes however and Patroclus looks up to see her brow furrowed with concern.

“What?” he asks, somewhat defensively.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t that strike you as weird?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t be dumb. I just mean he’s introduced to a perfect stranger and his first instinct is to flirt with them? That doesn’t strike me as the product of a healthy environment.”

“Hey come on,” Patroclus frowns. “It’s hardly like he’s the first fifteen year old to have sex on the brain. Loads of teenage boys flirt with strangers. Or you know, so I’m told.”

“But to immediately sexualise the conversation? I don’t know man, that sounds like influence to me.”

“I don’t think it was anything like that,” says Patroclus quickly, heat creeping into his cheeks. “For one thing, I think he was just trying to make me uncomfortable. There was something manipulative about it.”

Briseis props her elbow on the table, jabbing a finger at Patroclus. “That,” she says, pointing significantly. “Is even worse. Come on dude, he just meets you and straight away he’s trying to find out what you might want from him sexually? That’s fucked up.”

“Jesus,” says Patroclus, cheeks burning with the warmth flooding to the back of his neck. “I think you’re reading too much into this.”

Briseis looks unconvinced. “Maybe,” she says, sounding doubtful. “I’ll see when I meet him. When’s the CPC?”

Patroclus checks the form. “Wednesday,” he replies. “I’ll stick it in your diary.”

Briseis gives him the thumbs up and leaves for the kitchen in search of salad dressing. Meanwhile Patroclus scribbles a note for the Child Protection Conference before drawing up the new file on the database and entering in the date. Then he grabs a fresh orange folder (orange for Care Proceedings, green for Finance) and a label, on which he scribbles _Nereida_ before sticking it over the top. Afterwards he takes three plastic wallets, labelling them _Correspondence, Documents_ and _Legal Aid_ individually. In the _Correspondence_ section he slips his attendance note of the meeting and, file complete, dumps it on to Briseis’ desk before switching off his computer and turning his attentions to Instagram.

A couple of minutes later Briseis returns, slightly more appetising salad in hand, and turns off her own computer in favour of her phone. There is no need to ask what she’s looking at; for reasons entirely incomprehensible to Patroclus, Briseis prefers to spend her lunch hour scrolling through Buzzfeed, a habit understandable in a teenager perhaps but completely inexcusable in someone who will this year be turning twenty-five.

For a while there’s silence with each of them doing their own thing, broken infrequently with the sound of Patroclus commenting idly on someone’s photo, or Briseis tittering moronically. As the minutes drag by Patroclus can feel his hold on reality slipping away; most of his symptoms have disappeared now apart from the inevitable lethargy he always experiences around this hour. He’s thinking of adding ‘time’ as a possible cure for monditis which seems to behave similarly to influenza. His eyelids feel heavy and he is just contemplating taking a nap when he is brought back to Earth by Briseis’ exclamation of: “Oh my God.”

“What?” asks Patroclus drowsily, preparing himself for ‘25 Most Botched Celebrity Face Jobs’ or something equally inane.

 “Oh this is horrible,” says Briseis. “Listen. Last night, forty-two year old Ian Percy was found dead at an abandoned hostel south of his home in Derby, after having been missing one month. The body had been deceased at least two days before it was discovered by police, tied to a bed and drained entirely of blood. Forensic analysis shows evidence of tubes inserted into the wrists for this purpose. Reports also relate cuts to the head and part of the _brain_ removed, as well as evidence of several procedures which may have been conducted while the victim was still alive.”

“Horror,” interrupts Patroclus, who is squeamish. “Please stop.”

“Wait there’s more,” continues Briseis, who is not. “Apparently this is the _second body_ to have been found in a similar state, the first having been Dione Backhouse, mother of two, who had also been missing one month prior to discovery. Investigations are currently undergoing to ascertain whether there may be a link between the two cases.”

“Nope,” Patroclus shakes his head decisively. “Nope, nope. I know what this is. This is more of your ‘law is just a means to my end of becoming a crime/horror flick writer’-”

 _“Screenplay_ writer,” Briseis corrects him. “And no it isn’t, look.”

She leans across the table to thrust her phone in his face and it’s all Patroclus can do to squeeze his eyes shut and let out a yelp of indignation, just as at that moment the door to the annex clatters open, resulting in Briseis promptly dropping her phone as she straightens up to blink innocently at the large figure currently casting a long shadow over the tiny space.

“What’s the source of all this joviality?” asks Mene from the doorway, mug in hand.

Mene’s tone is amiable and he is smiling, still there is something sad about the way he blinks from Patroclus to Briseis from behind his small, wire-framed glasses. This is largely because Mene Atreus is just a sad person. The only other male in the office, he is a perfect embodiment of workplace emasculation, due to his being placed below nearly every other female partner. This tragic irony came to its pinnacle last year when he was beaten for promotion by his own wife Helen, who promptly transferred to _Trojan_ (otherwise known as: The Enemy) and left him for their twenty-one year old intern. He mostly deals with the day to day Care cases, along with, poetically, the occasional divorce and mediation. Now he stands in the doorway, holding a mug with a picture of a red cartoon train on it. Somehow, that mug is the saddest part of the whole story.

None of this changes the fact that he is still Briseis’ boss and she has to be nice to him, regardless of pathos. “Quite the contrary,” she replies, showing him her phone screen. “We were just talking about this really nasty murder case.”

“Oh yes,” says Mene, squinting at the screen with an emphatic shudder. “Yes, I saw that on the news last night. Terrible business, terrible. One feels for his poor family. And it’s the second one they’ve found you know. To drain someone alive! Where on earth does a person get these ideas?”

“Gothic horror?” suggests Briseis.

“Young Adult fiction?” adds Patroclus.

“Well you know, I do wonder if there isn’t something… _faddish_ about the whole affair. Cults and rituals, you know the kind of thing. Someone discovering the _Necromicon_ at a particularly unstable time in his life. Reminds me of when I worked in crime back in the 90s…some very nasty cases we had then, including one client of ours who had somehow managed to stuff his victim up a drainpipe-”

“-Was there something you needed help with at all?” interrupts Briseis as Patroclus looks on the verge of revisiting his stir-fry.

“What? Oh, no. Actually I was just about to make a coffee,” he says with a tilt of his sad mug. “And then I thought I might pop into town for a spot of lunch. Would you care to join? There’s a new delicatessen just opened up on Broad Street. Sweetmeats are to die for.”

Patroclus starts intently examining what’s left of his lunch so that he doesn’t have to see Mene’s face fall upon Briseis’ response. “That sounds lovely Mr Atreus,” she replies, smiling with equally false sincerity. “But I’m all set thank you.”

“Want me to bring you back anything? Some sausage? Du fromage?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“I am also fine,” supplies Patroclus because it could just have been a mistake that no one asked.

Once Mene has left and the annex door has shut behind him, Patroclus deems it safe to look up. “You know, every time you call him ‘Mr Atreus’ he dies a little inside.”

“That is not my problem,” replies Briseis briskly, sweeping up the remains of her salad. “Just because his wife left him doesn’t mean he has to make moon eyes at _me._ It’s unprofessional. Not to mention icky.”

“Come on man. Weren’t you saying just last week how much you wanted a sugar daddy?”

Patroclus snickers as Briseis gags with exaggerated disgust. _“Gross,”_ she shudders vigorously. “God. If I was serious about going down _that_ road I’d have chosen his brother.”

It’s Patroclus’ turn to look scandalised. “He’s a _bastard,”_ he says with feeling, thinking of the last time he’d seen Agamemnon in Court.

“Duh,” Briseis rolls her eyes. “All barristers are. Doesn’t change the fact that the man is balling.”

There is no sufficient response to that so Patroclus settles on throwing a paper clip at her.

The rest of the day passes very slowly. Patroclus works steadily through his list, finishing Briseis’ stuff and wading through the hefty tasks left for him by the other solicitors. As the minutes on the clock tick closer to five they talk less and less, a sure sign of their increasing tiredness which not even the strength of two more black coffees can defeat. Finally the hour of escape comes; Patroclus tidies his desk into completed and things that still need attention before turning off his computer. He and Briseis walk out the office together, waving feeble goodbyes to their colleagues before practically leaping the stairs into reception and darting out of the building.

Once outside they go their separate ways, Briseis to the dodgy backroad where her car is parked and Patroclus towards the bus station. Once on the bus, Patroclus plugs himself into his iPod and allows the music to take over, draining away the refuses of the day all the long journey back.

_Send my body out to work_

_But leave my senses_

_In orbit over south-east London_

_Wind the window down and pinch_

_Me on the shoulder else_

_I'll be driving off to dream of_

_Lying in your attic I can feel the static_

_The storm has broken, Heavens open_

The bus draws out of the station. Patroclus closes his eyes. Around him, the city bleeds away.

*

Patroclus has Tuesdays and Wednesday mornings off. While for any other adolescent with a part-time job this would come as a relief, due to the vast and inexplicable forces that hold sway over Patroclus’ life he is forced to donate these rare hours of freedom towards his degree. Patroclus skims through the reading on the Commonwealth until he’s pretty sure the text is more or less in line with his original understanding of the subject (Racism. The gist of the British Empire is racism. Also heroin) and makes a start on his paper before class.

Class is a struggle (no pun intended). While Patroclus would say that, generally speaking, he enjoys his course, it’s always a 50/50 chance on whether the topic covered will be of any interest. Unfortunately, this time he loses. Patroclus spends the majority of the two hour talk concentrating on keeping his eyes open as the lecturer goes on and on about the importance of Data Protection, interrupted frequently by the nasal queries of Dee-Dee Mia Levy, followed by a flurry of tapping from her pink acrylic nails on her keyboard.

Finally the lecture ends and Patroclus gets up, swinging his bag onto his shoulder in his haste to leave the room before Dee-Dee can corner him. No such luck however; with her usual leopard-like agility Dee-Dee slides over two desks, landing in front of him before he even has a chance to do up his coat.

“Whaddup Mendis,” she says, blowing a bright pink bubble of gum before promptly snapping it up.

Patroclus gives her a bored look. “We’re not American and neither of us went to a private school,” he tells her for what has to be the hundredth time. “You don’t have to call me by my surname.”

Dee-Dee shrugs, chewing her gum indifferently. “I wouldn’t if your first name wasn’t so fucking stupid,” she says with her typical unnecessary aggression. “Who the hell is called ‘Patroclus’ anyway? I mean, where the hell does that even come from?”

“As opposed to ‘Dee-Dee’ which is a perfectly reasonable name,” Patroclus answers with a roll of his eyes. “Can I help you with something?”

Dee-Dee glares at him and Patroclus finds himself wondering, as is prone to happen disturbingly often, whether or not she’s attractive. He’s aware that he’s probably not the best person to ask when it comes to analysing the physical female but even so, objectively speaking it’s a subject open to debate. A recent attempt to look more _sophistqueé_ amounted to the chopping of her straight black hair to just below the point of her chin, framing her pale, heart-shaped face in a way that could be quite nice, if it wasn’t for the look that she wears habitually with it. Dee-Dee’s default expression is one of supreme smugness and it is this, apart from anything else, that in Patroclus’ opinion stops her just shy of being pretty.

“What ever happened to making conversation?” she snaps at him. “Actually I was going to invite you to something, which you’re obviously going to say ‘no’ to because you’re a socially inhibited loser or whatever but what can I say, I like to assume the best in people. So here,” she breaks off to dig around in the bag hanging from her shoulder. Despite being the only person on the course who uses a laptop in class, Dee-Dee still insists upon flashing about her Mac wherever she goes and she allows Patroclus an ample glimpse of it in her search for a brightly coloured flier with she withdraws with a flourish. “In case you feel like taking a step out of the 80s, or whatever cave it is you’re living in these days.”

Patroclus peers at the flier. The obnoxious amount of Clip Art, bubble-writing and exclamation marks confirms that it was, in fact, made by her. As Patroclus skims over the glaringly bright colouring he realises that this flier is one of many that have been previously pushed into his locker, or dropped surreptitiously into his rucksack, inviting him to one of the law parties the students on his course are always throwing. From what he understands of them, they largely consist of cheap wine in plastic cups, copious amounts of cocaine and neo-liberal comedy that just about always end with the same punchline (“Two words: corporate law! Am I right? Put it there mate, give me some.”) Needless to say, Patroclus has never been.

“I’m working,” says Patroclus without even glancing at the date.

Dee-Dee’s green eyes narrow into catlike slits. “It’s a Saturday,” she tells him.

“I’m in the office all day Friday,” Patroclus mends quickly. “Weekends are catch up time. Reading. Studying. You know how it is.”

“Right, yeah, yeah, your job,” Dee-Dee mutters bitterly, zipping her bag closed and Patroclus suppresses a smirk. He’d heard through the grapevine that after Patroclus had landed his spot at _Akhaion_ Dee-Dee had applied too and, upon being rejected, had sent her CV at every firm in the area, including _Skyros,_ one of the lowest rated solicitors around. Patroclus can’t help but think her odds of employment might improve slightly if she took “too much of a perfectionist” off the list of her weaknesses. “Why anyone wants to hire a retard like you is beyond me. I guess it’s whatever it takes to make Family a little less of a fish market. Come on, Mendis. Aren’t you supposed to be a guy?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a feminist?” retorts Patroclus, heroically not dwelling on the term ‘fish market’.

In response, Dee-Dee flashes her middle acrylic. “Whatever Mendis,” she sneers, rejecting Patroclus’ offer of the flier. “Keep it. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Patroclus doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is that he’ll also let her know if he ever decides to drop law altogether and take up Morris dancing. Not that it matters; Dee-Dee is already halfway out the door with a parting flick of her ersatz Parisian bob. Patroclus sighs, stuffing the flier at the bottom of his bag where, with any luck, it will lie undisturbed for the next two and a half years before following her out of the building and towards the bus stop.

The traffic is bad and he is late. This is of concern to absolutely no one, on the account that everyone other than Briseis is prone to forgetting about his existence except from when they want him to do something. As it is, his arrival barely causes more than a stir and only Briseis looks up as he dumps his stuff opposite her.

“Morning,” she greets him. “How was class?”

“Dull as shit,” Patroclus replies, sinking into his chair. “Did you know that according to Part 12 of the Data Protection Act the data controller must, within twenty-one days of receiving a notice under subsection 2b, give an individual written notice specifying the steps he intends to take?”

“You know what, I don’t think I did?”

“Now you do. No need to thank me for enriching your life.”

“I thank the stars every night.”

Patroclus sweeps over his desk and notices a large black ring-binder, marked with a yellow post-it note. “What’s this?” he asks.

“Someone left you a bundle to take to Court,” Briseis replies with a shrug. “I can take it if you want, I’m going later anyway.”

Patroclus shakes his head. “Nah, it’s fine.” To tell the truth, he enjoys the walk. True there are much prettier sights than the Dalham town center; Patroclus doesn’t particularly cherish having to grit his teeth against the jeers of drunkards and ketamine addicts, staggering through the streets on their way to Poundland or the equally but differently depressing trip past the Job Center where single fathers and hollow-eyed immigrants share cigarettes over another failed application. But when the weather is nice it’s a good excuse to stretch his legs and get some fresh air, plus the people who work at Court seem to really like him for some reason.

Patroclus finishes everything he didn’t get a chance to complete on Monday and then runs a few telephone attendance notes off the system. He takes the bundle to Court and has a conversation with the lovely ladies who work the Family Services desk. When he gets back, he has run out of things to do.

It is these moments that are the absolute worst. For the most part, working in a solicitors is fairly stressful. There are never enough hands on board to tackle the administrative tasks which often means Briseis and Patroclus are the ones to get landed with work which could and should be done by other people. Everything turns to chaos when there’s a particularly big case coming up, or one or two of the secretaries are off. These are the days when it feels as though the entire world is ending, and Patroclus is on the last line of defense against the armies of the Apocalypse. However, Patroclus would take on three Final Hearings any day over the sheer, mind-numbing drudgery of having nothing to do.

“Stop,” Briseis says at last as Patroclus embarks on the third mighty spin of his chair and promptly falls off, crashing into a box of file dividers. “You’re making me anxious.”

“Give me something to do,” Patroclus orders.

Briseis points to the growing stack of papers beside her computer. Patroclus pulls a face. _“Not_ filing,” he says with distaste.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Briseis shrugs.

“I still have _standards.”_

“Go and ask someone else then.”

Patroclus gets up sulkily from his seat and prowls the length of the office, popping his head into various rooms and asking if anyone needs help. He hates doing this. It’s demeaning and embarrassing. However, as Briseis points out on a regular basis, it’s also what the majority of their clients have to do daily so he should really suck it up and contemplate his privilege. It is hard to feel philosophical on these matters though as everyone he asks shakes their head sympathetically and he is forced to concede defeat.

After about ten minutes of Patroclus tapping out the tune to ‘Faith’ with his pencil, Briseis stands up.

“Right,” she says, pulling on her coat. “Come on.”

“What?” Patroclus gawps at her stupidly.

“I’ve got the Nereida CPC in five and you’re coming with me. Either that or I might strangle you.”

Straight away, Patroclus is on his feet. He isn’t particularly in love with the idea of sitting in a boiling hot room, full of stuffy middle-aged women for a conference that could easily last three hours. On the other hand, Child Protection Conferences can be really interesting and the Gossip-Girl binging voyeurist in him really, really enjoys them. On the other other hand, Patroclus would take unsticking chewing gum from the side of the road if it meant something to do. Anything other than filing.

The CPC is at St Augustine’s, the Social Services building about three minutes down the road. Briseis and Patroclus are met by a surly receptionist who asks them to sign in before directing them to the waiting area. There are a few people there, mostly miserable looking parents watching their children playing with the ancient toys supplied, completely oblivious to the nature of their visit. There are also a few professionals; social workers and nurses, some of whom nod at Briseis as she walks in. Most of them ignore her though. There is a definite but unspoken tension between the parents’ solicitors and just about everyone else. Patroclus isn’t sure if this goes much deeper beyond the universal truth: everybody hates lawyers.

Five minutes later, the automatic door slides open and Thetis Nereida walks in, accompanied by her son. Despite it being late January she is wearing a faded sundress, one size too big, and a tiny denim jacket which might have belonged to a teenager. Achilles is dressed more conservatively in jeans, hoody, and a pair of running trainers. As Thetis signs in his quick, keen eyes sweep over the room, landing on Patroclus. At once he shoves his hands in his pockets and swaggers over, nodding his bright blond head in greeting.

“Salutations to you good sir,” he announces in a pompous, important voice. “Good to see you could keep our appointment.”

“Likewise,” replies Patroclus, shaking the proffered hand.

Achilles’ eyes move from Patroclus’ face to observe Briseis. “Are you the one we were supposed to meet?” he asks. “The other day?”

“Yes,” replies Briseis, standing up. “I’m very sorry I couldn’t make it. My name is Briseis. I’m going to be your lawyer.”

Achilles’ eyes twinkle at that and Patroclus can tell he likes the sound of it. Thetis has finished signing in and now comes over to join them; Patroclus sees Briseis strand up a little straighter, the small of her back stiffening as she holds out her hand.

“Hi Thetis,” she says courteously. “I’m Briseis Yilmaz. I’ll be acting as your solicitor for this conference and during the course of any future proceedings.”

Thetis’ steely grey eyes narrow as she takes in Briseis’ neat black dress and smart blazer. A muscle in her jaw jumps. The two shake hands and then Briseis sits down, Thetis taking the chair beside her. Achilles takes the seat next to his mother and immediately starts shaking his leg vigorously while chewing the nails of his left hand. Patroclus remains standing, listening closely while Briseis and Thetis make small talk: _Did you get here ok? How was the traffic? It’s usually ok at this time. Yes, it is._

Niceties concluded, silence falls. They are the only ones left in the waiting room now and the only sound comes from the ticking of the ugly, flower-shaped clock on the wall. Achilles has mutilated the fingers of both hands and is laying the nails out on the arm rest beside him. Both Thetis and Briseis are pointedly ignoring this while Patroclus watches with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

Finally, the door opens on the other side of the room and an usher walks out, holding a clipboard. He announces “Nereida”, pretty pointlessly considering there is literally no one else in the room, and Patroclus moves out the way, taking the rear behind Achilles as they follow the usher through the door and along a short corridor. The usher stops at one of the rooms and knocks briefly before promptly turning on his heel and walking away. Briseis opens the door and holds it open for Thetis and Achilles to walk in in front of her.

Patroclus has been in several of these rooms in various different buildings and they all look exactly the same. Around a cluster of tables, pushed together to form one large square five women and one man are sat, notepads and pens in front of them. All of them wear lanyards. The woman at the head of the table is sat in front of a whiteboard that Patroclus doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone use. All six heads are turned in the direction of the door, all six faces tight-lipped and haughty.

There is a jug of water on the table next to a tube of plastic cups. Briseis sits her party down and pours two cups which she hands to Thetis and Achilles. Client privileges. Patroclus has to pour his own water.

“Is that everyone?” asks the woman at the head of the table, a bespectacled lady with close cropped brown hair who Patroclus recognises as Alison. “Alright then, let’s make a start. We’ll go around the table and introduce ourselves. My name is Alison Wade, I’ll be the Chair for today’s meeting.”

They go around the table and each person says their name. They all go straight through one of Patroclus’ ears and out the other, all except the social worker, Juno. The relationship between _Akhaion Solicitors_ and Juno Olympe is ancient history. Patroclus takes in the heavy makeup, the dangling jeweled earrings and elaborate 50s hairdo with distaste. As she says her name she nods at Briseis, her dark plum painted mouth pursed in a nauseating simper, and Briseis jerks her head stiffly.

“Alright,” Alison claps her hands amiably, smiling at Achilles in a way she probably thinks is kindly and maternal. “So, as you’ll all have noticed we have a special little guest here today! Achilles, welcome to your first Child Protection Conference. Now remember, as you’re such a clever young man you have the right and ability to speak any time you want, only make sure you wait until other people have finished speaking! And if there’s something you disagree with, or you just want to put forward your own opinion, just pop your hand up like you do in school. Is that ok, sweetie?”

“It sure is sweetie,” Achilles grins back innocently, fluttering his long eyelashes.

“Excellent. Shall we crack on then? Juno, why don’t you start with the report.”

Juno straightens up in her seat, throwing back her head self-importantly. Briseis makes a tiny sound of revulsion at the back of her throat as the social worker clears her throat and begins to address the room.

“Well as you all know,” she starts in her smug, bureaucratic voice. “I was only assigned to this case very recently, in fact this is the first time that I’ve actually met Thetis and Achilles here,” she breaks off to offer Thetis a purple smile. “ _Hi_ there. How do you do. So this report is actually from the previous social worker, Aisha Karim, and I’ll just read the summary now.” She pauses to clear her throat before continuing.

“Thetis Nereida is a single mum who lives with her teenaged son Achilles. Social Services first became involved in this case when Achilles’ school expressed concerns due the number of missed attendances. Since then Achilles has become known to Services as a result of reports from neighbours and from school, specifically regarding unidentified male visitors to the family home and instances of Achilles turning up at school with unexplained bruises and other such minor injuries. School has also expressed concern regarding Achilles’ behaviour when he does attend; describing him as inattentive, disruptive and, on occasion, violent. Both Thetis and Achilles have been reported of several criminal offences by police…none of which I’ll mention _here_ for obvious reasons. Services are also concerned of mother’s ability to safely parent Achilles, due to the state of her mental health and reports regarding use of drugs and alcohol.”

Juno puts down the report, folding her long taloned hands together. “I won’t go through the whole thing but I have produced copies which everyone can have a read of later. Basically, Aisha has been on five visits to the family home now. On the majority of visits, she has reported the house clean and tidy to a good standard and suitably equipped with food, furniture, stimulation etc. However, on one unannounced visit she attended the property and Achilles wasn’t there. When asked where he was, Thetis shrugged and appeared unconcerned, saying that she didn’t know.”

“He’s a teenager!” Thetis interrupts angrily. “How am I supposed to know where he is every minute of every day? You can’t tell me you know everything that your own kids get up to, in their own bloody time!”

“Let me finish please,” says Juno, smooth as silk. “On a following visit, Aisha attended the property and there was another man present, playing video games with Achilles. When she asked Achilles who this man was, he replied that it was his uncle although this later proved to be untrue. On another visit, Thetis appeared to be under the influence of alcohol. Achilles was present in the property at the time. And then of course the final visit when…well, I think you were quite rude to Aisha, weren’t you Thetis?”

“She was rude to _me,”_ Thetis snarled. “She said that my cabinets were old and needed replacing. As if I just have the money laying around for kitchen bloody cabinets. I told her that it wasn’t a priority and she said that actually it was, because Achilles could hurt himself and get a _splinter._ A _splinter._ So I said we can’t all be like _you lot_ and pop over to Ikea any time a door knob falls off and all of a sudden she goes off on one, and has the nerve to tell me I’m being racist.”

“I don’t think Aisha said it went quite like that,” says Juno, addressing the Chair.

“Well there are two sides to every story,” Alison concedes diplomatically. “I daresay there was a bit of miscommunication going on. Anyway, I’m far more concerned with this male visitor who was with Achilles. Who was he?”

Achilles glances at Thetis and Patroclus can read the expression there as clear as anything: _Do you want me to lie?_ Thetis, however, doesn’t look at him, only hesitates briefly before replying. “He’s a family friend,” she says grudgingly. “He’s like Achilles’ uncle. That’s why he calls him that.”

“And I suppose the different young man Aisha saw leaving your property on her fourth visit is another ‘family friend’?” Juno raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, so what?” says Thetis loudly. “I can have friends, can’t I? They’ve yet to make _that_ a bloody crime.”

“The Local Authority is concerned that one of these men might pose a risk to Achilles,” Alison explains gently.

“As if I would ever let any harm come to my child.”

“That’s all very well to say, but we don’t _know_ these men,” Juno continues. “They could very well be anyone. Until they are risk assessed and deemed appropriate, such visitors can no longer be allowed on the property.”

Thetis looks on the urge to swear, two spots of furious colour appearing on her ordinarily pale face. Sensing danger, Alison hurries on.

“Well I think we’ve got a pretty good idea of what the concerns are,” she says quickly. “We’ll return to the Care Plan later. For now shall we move on to School. Hestia, if you would.”

“Right you are,” the Headmistress of Achilles’ school fixes her glasses before starting. “So, this is actually the third school Achilles has been to, having been expelled from his previous two. At the moment, Achilles’ attendance is around 78% which is really not good enough. From what we can gather, Thetis has actually been sending Achilles off to school, however once her back is turned he simply doesn’t go. We have addressed this issue with Thetis but she doesn’t seem to be taking it as seriously as we would like her to be, particularly as we have no idea where Achilles goes…or with whom. When he does come to school, it’s 50/50. Some days he’s just inattentive and uninterested, going off in his own little world and refusing to try. Other days he is loud, boisterous to the point of disruptive and attention seeking. He acts out frequently in class, antagonising teachers and students alike. He’s also quite the prankster, aren’t you Achilles?”

“Tell them about the birds Hest,” Achilles grins.

“Coming to it. I don’t know how he did it, but one time he managed to fill the entire gym with pigeons. It was like something out of a Hitchcock. Another time he stole one of the other teachers’…er…toupée and fixed it to the flagpole. God knows how he did it, it’s impossible to get up there without some kind of mechanical aid. Another time…well…no one can prove he did it but my personal guess is that it was him who flooded the school by bursting a pipe…a feat which would have taken an unfeasible amount of strength so God knows how he did that either…the list goes on.”

“The cups,” Achilles presses her.

“That one wasn’t your best. Of course there have been the usual filling the hallways with cups of water, cling-filming the toilet, etcetera.” Patroclus can’t help but notice she looks almost fond. “On a more serious note however, Achilles’ anger has become increasingly unmanageable and there have been a few instances of him acting out violently on members of staff and other students. He’s prone to getting into fights, one time nearly breaking my colleague’s arm. It’s as if a switch goes off, he is completely uncontrollable. However,” nope, there’s no other way to describe it. She’s fond. “There are _also_ moments when Achilles can be…quite charming. He’s an incredibly intelligent boy, in fact, I’d say he’s one of the most naturally gifted young people I’ve taught in my career. When he’s interested in something there’s no one who can out-perform him and several members of staff have remarked that he can be a delight to teach. Unfortunately this doesn’t happen very often. The only school activity Achilles shows consistent enjoyment in is athletics, at which he excels.”

“‘Excels’ is such a limiting word,” says Achilles sniffily.

“You don’t need any more praise than that. You’re ego’s big enough,” Hestia tells him. “However…he is quite right. In this case, ‘excels’ is a limiting word.”

“Well that’s great to hear!” exclaims Alison, beaming heartily. “Everyone should have an outlet. How are you finding school at the moment, Achilles?”

Achilles shrugs. “Fine,” he replies indifferently. “Boring.”

“You know Achilles, it’s often said that only boring people get bored,” continues Alison. “You’re not a boring person, are you?”

Achilles looks for a moment, quite revolted. “You get _paid_ for this?” he asks with sincerity.

“Achilles,” mutters Thetis sharply as Juno and the Health Visitor exchange significant looks.

“Moving on,” says Alison, looking only a little shaken. “We have…ah. Yes. Yes, perhaps…perhaps it would be best if Achilles were to wait outside.”

Instantly, Achilles is on alert and sitting up straight in his seat, as if someone has applied an electrical charge to his skin. “Why?” he demands. “What is it?”

“A lot of this police report contains confidential information,” Juno explains. “Things that your mother might not want you to hear.”

Achilles looks up at Thetis in confusion. She refuses to meet his gaze, only stares frowningly ahead. “What things?” Achilles persists. “Is it that…you know. That thing.”

“Quiet,” Thetis snaps, folding her arms across her chest. “Go and wait outside.”

Achilles does what he’s told, although with very ill grace and looking extremely disgruntled. The Chair scans the length of the table, looking tentatively from face to face. “Anyone who would be so kind as to wait with him?”

Knowing his place and not needing Briseis’ signal, Patroclus stands up. “Got it,” he says, acknowledging Alison’s thanks and leaving the room after Achilles.

He finds Achilles in the waiting room, hands stuffed in his pockets, kicking at loose lego pieces. He looks up as Patroclus enters and his features are taught with resentment.

“They’re trying to keep things from me,” he says accusingly, looking at Patroclus as though this is somehow his fault.

Patroclus nods. “Yes,” he says.

Achilles’ brow scrunches. “Why?”

“Maybe because you’re fifteen?” Patroclus suggests. “There are some things you just don’t need to be hearing.”

Achilles’ eyes narrow. “It’s not like you’re that much older than me,” he says.

Patroclus gestures to the waiting room. “And look where I am.”

This answer appears to please Achilles some reason and he looks for a moment about to laugh, although he suppresses it quickly. He shrugs, casual once again. “I hate it in there anyway,” he throws off. “It’s full of stupid people saying stupid things.”

“Your head teacher said some very nice things about you,” Patroclus points out.

Again, Achilles’ face appears to light up as a grin crawls across it, unbidden. “Ah Hest,” he shakes his head affectionately. “She loves me really. She can’t help herself. That’s why she hasn’t expelled me.” He looks at Patroclus, suddenly sharp. “Do you play football?”

It’s Patroclus’ turn to stifle a laugh. “No.”

“Rugby? Cricket? Tennis?”

Patroclus shakes his head. Achilles looks deeply offended. “Do you play _any_ sport?” he asks imploringly.

“Chess,” says Patroclus with a quirk of his lip.

He said it to be provoking, expecting to see Achilles’ face twist up in disgust and hear him swear. What he does not anticipate is for Achilles to nod, as if this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “I play chess too,” he answers. “I’m pretty good.”

“Dig out a board then,” says Patroclus jokingly.

It takes him a whole of three seconds to repent the rashness of these words. Achilles takes him at face value, instantly turning around and burrowing through the ancient games and toys kindly individuals have donated to their local Social Services. At last he comes up with a beaten old chess set and a plastic lunch bag of pieces which he spills out on the floor at Patroclus’ feet. Patroclus watches in amazement as Achilles swiftly begins setting the board, assigning himself black. When all the pieces are in position, he looks back up at Patroclus, blinking expectantly.

“White goes first,” he announces. “Your move.”

                                                                           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prepare for awful chess talk and nerdy flanter next chapter.
> 
> 1\. 'Dalham' is, as far as i'm aware, a made up place. I don't want to say where it's based off for reasons. Safe to say it is a city in England (not London.)  
> 2\. The song Patroclus listens to is Zorbing by Stornoway  
> 3\. Reserve judgement on Deidemeia (Dee-Dee.) I intend to do her well. 
> 
> any questions drop them in the comments, or hit me up on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

For someone who plays chess, it can sometimes take as few as three moves to discern that the person with whom you are playing is not a chess-player. There is a world’s berth of difference between someone who _can_ play chess and someone who _does_ play chess, which might sound like intellectual snobbery but it’s also plain truth. Anyone can tell you how much a bishop is worth and that a knight moves in an L shape. Anyone can push pieces around a board. This is not, contrary to popular opinion, playing chess.

Patroclus has spent a substantial amount of his life playing against chess players and non-chess players alike. Having now, a pretty good idea of the spectrum of ability, he would class himself as a pretty decent chess player. He doesn’t like to brag (but if the topic like, ever came up he’s not gonna be _shy_ about it or anything) but he _was_ National Champion at the age of 11. True he hasn’t been in a tournament since he started secondary school, because being brown and queer was already half way to filling the pint of popularity, but he’s fairly confident with classing this fifteen year old, delinquent Care-kid as a novice at best.

With this in mind, he decides to make his first move a simple pawn to king four, expecting Achilles to meet it with his pawn in the middle. He registers faint surprise, therefore, as Achilles responds by moving his pawn to C5, in emulation of the classic Sicilian defence.

“So what’s your story then?” Achilles asks after Patroclus moves his knight. “What’s the law thing about?”

 “Well it was either that or medicine,” Patroclus replies with a quirk of his lip. “And I don’t like cadavers.”

Achilles’ brow furrows, recognising it as a joke. “Is ‘cadavers’ dead bodies?”

“Yes,” Patroclus affirms and Achilles appears to file the word away, as if for later use. “Asian joke. Sorry.”

“An Asian joke how?”

“Like,” Patroclus struggles on how to articulate social engineering while calculating the immediate threat to his pawn. “You know. There’s that stereotype about how South Asians have to be really over-achieving. Like, people assume we’re all programmed to be doctors and dentists etcetera.”

Achilles nods. “Right,” he says. “Sort of how people assume _we’re_ all programmed to be drug dealers and whores.”

As with the Sicilian defence, this is not a response Patroclus was expecting or is even prepared to answer. Achilles doesn’t sound bitter or angry, like Patroclus or Briseis would when confronted with systematic dehumanisation, just matter-of-fact. Patroclus swallows, following the movement of Achilles’ queen’s pawn.

“I don’t think anyone assumes that of you,” he says finally because it seems like a safe thing to say.

Achilles makes a scoffing sound, sensing the lie. “Come on,” he answers, fixing Patroclus with a look. “But maybe you’re right. _I’m_ going to be in prison by the time I’m eighteen. Not much chance to set up a cartel.”

His tone does not invite pity and Patroclus senses that would be the wrong way to go. Instead he decides to humour him. “What are you going to be in prison for?”

Achilles’ lip twitches in humour. “Vandalism.  Arson. Assault.” He looks up and his eyes flash with a diabolical smile. “Hacking. You can take your pick.”

Patroclus raises his eyebrow. “You’re a computer hacker?”

Achilles shrugs, leaning over the board to take Patroclus’ pawn. “Not just computers.”

Patroclus takes Achilles’ knight in revenge, trying to pair his image of Achilles with some sort of Edward Snowdon type figure. “How did you learn that?”

Achilles shrugs again. “When I was little I liked to take things apart,” he replies. “Laptops. Phones. Calculators. See how they worked and put them back together again. In secondary school I moved up to systems. It’s pretty easy, once you get the knack of it.”

“Pretty illegal too,” Patroclus observes wryly.

“Yeah,” Achilles grins. “But everyone’s always saying I should find an outlet. And they get really upset when I burn shit.”

“What counts as ‘shit’?”

Achilles has fianchettoed his bishop. Patroclus hadn’t noticed and now it comes zooming across the board to knock out his knight. “Most things,” Achilles answers. “I got community service for an old fairground once.”

Patroclus looks up from the board to stare at him. “You burned down a _fairground_ and you only got community service?”

“It was the ugliest fucking thing you ever saw,” Achilles grimaces, shaking his head. “Abandoned, you know. The Council were supposed to clear it weeks ago. I was already _doing_ a community service.”

Patroclus can do nothing but shake his own head and try to refocus on the game. The fianchetto had surprised him, but now Patroclus wonders whether Achilles hasn’t miscalculated. There’s no reason why he can’t just take the bishop. Sure Achilles can then take him with his knight, but Patroclus is still a pawn up. He takes the bishop.

Achilles draws his knight across the board. “Check,” he says.

Ah. Patroclus hadn’t seen that. He makes to move his king out the way but no sooner has he done so when Achilles’ knight has taken his queen.

Patroclus stares, horrified. “What the _fuck?”_

“Classic fork mate,” grins Achilles.

He is super fucking right. Patroclus had completely missed it, and now Achilles’ knight is aiming for his rook. He makes to move it out the way when Achilles stops him. “Nuh-uh,” he says, tapping his queen. “Can’t do that. See?”

He traces the line between his queen and Patroclus’ king, a line broken only by the obstruction of Patroclus’ rook. He is well and truly pinned. Patroclus swears again, knowing he has to lose it. Out of a desperate attempt to save something of the situation he challenges Achilles’ other bishop which he takes after Achilles slaughters his rook. It’s a very bad trade and Patroclus is losing spectacularly.

“You didn’t really answer my question,” says Achilles, clearing up the leftovers of his onslaught as Patroclus stares miserably at his dwindling army. “Why law?”

Patroclus blows out a long breath. “I don’t know,” he confesses dully. “To help people, I guess. Fight the power, stick it to the man. All of that.”

“Money, too.”

“Yeah, money too.”

“It’s a very sexy profession,” says Achilles, glancing up at Patroclus.

“Mmm?”

“Mmm. All those men, wearing suits and shouting at each other. I went to Court once,” Achilles adds mildly. “Well. More than once, but this was the time I got my community service. There were these two barristers and they just yelled at each other the whole time. I didn’t hear a word of what anyone was saying about me, because I was watching these two barristers getting all hot and bothered at each other. And _I_ was getting all hot and bothered, just watching them. In the end I had to leave, I was getting so worked up.” He looks up, his smile devilish and completely unabashed. “Spent the entire recess in the bathroom.”

Patroclus doesn’t say anything but he can feel his cheeks burning, hot as a flaming ferris wheel. Achilles moves his rook so that it sits on the second rank. “Have you ever done that?” he asks.

“No,” Patroclus chokes out.

“Come on. I don’t believe you. You’re at Court all the time, right? How would you be able to stand it?”

Patroclus makes a feeble challenge of Achilles’ castle in an attempt to distract his assault. “This is not an appropriate topic.”

“Dude,” Achilles rolls his eyes. “You’re not my lawyer.”

“It’s still not appropriate.”

“Ok, fine. Sorry, I didn’t realise you were frigid.”

Patroclus sputters. “I am not…that is not…a _nice_ term-”

“-Is it appropriate to say I think you’d be a sexy lawyer?”

“No. But thanks.”

“No problem. Is it appropriate to say I’d have a hard time sitting still, if we were in Court and you were wearing a suit and yelling at some barrister?”

 _Jesus CHRIST._ Patroclus feels his mouth dry up, he swallows and his throat sticks before he is able to rasp out an answer. “Absolutely not,” he manages.

“Oh well,” says Achilles boredly, flicking his yellow hair out his eyes. “I s’pose I’ll just have to keep that one to myself then. Check mate.”

He moves his queen into position and leans away from the board, waiting for Patroclus’ reaction. Patroclus just stares and stares and stares, unable to believe it. Surely there’s some mistake, there’s no way it can be check mate, not this soon. Nevertheless, as his eyes rove frantically over the board for some loophole or escape the truth becomes hopelessly evident. He has lost and Achilles has beaten him, in little over five minutes. 

“Good game,” Achilles says generously, offering his hand to shake. “We should do it again.”

Patroclus less shakes Achilles’ hand than allows his own to be lifted up and down. He can’t quite comprehend the events of the past six or seven minutes and it’s going to to take a while for the feeling to flood back into his limbs. Luckily, he is saved from having to think up a sportsmanly response by the sound of the door opening and Juno’s clipped, superior voice.

“Achilles,” she says with an insincere contortion of her purple painted lips. “We’re ready for you now.”

“Sick one,” says Achilles, getting to his feet. He follows Juno through the door and back along the corridor, Patroclus tagging after him like a man in a daze.

Juno opens the door to the meeting room and steps back, allowing Achilles and Patroclus to retake their seats. Quite unlike their last entry, each head is turned down and away from them and there is a definite sense of embarrassment in the air which Patroclus thinks might have had to do in no small part to the police report. The Police Officer is sitting with his ham-like arms crossed over his chest, leaning back slightly in his seat with the air of a man who has just laid down a tremendous burden. Briseis looks grim. Thetis, meanwhile, is white-faced and does not acknowledge Achilles as he comes to sit back down beside her.

“Right,” says Alison the Chair, shuffling the papers on the table in front of her distractedly. “Now that’s over with, shall we move on to Health?”

The Health Assessor, a nurse who is still wearing her scrubs as if she has come straight from the hospital, flips open her notepad immediately. “So I’ve been working with this family for about a month now,” she begins in an efficient, business-like style. “Which is quite a long time. Starting with Thetis; physically she’s a little under the average BMI for an adult female which is not at all uncommon for someone in her…position…but it does mean she’s slightly malnourished. This could contribute to why she’s often tired, in a low mood and physically weak, thus unable to manage Achilles’ behaviour. Her low immune system also makes her more vulnerable to illness and infection which is why she’s often poorly and Achilles has to stay at home to look after her, which means obviously he can’t go to school. Thetis’ regular consumption of alcohol also has its own health impacts, however its influence on her mood is more of a worry. Under the influence of alcohol, which she often is, she becomes extremely melancholy and can often turn aggressive. Even sober Thetis’ mental health is a cause for concern; on good days she can be irritable or a little low, on bad ones she is either unable to get out of bed and Achilles again has to look after her, or instead she becomes extremely violent and unpredictable. This could also be a result of drug use, which Thetis categorically denies, and there has been no testing thus far. While Thetis admits to feeling depressed and anxious I think it’s very likely that she also has some sort of personality disorder, possibly bipolar or schizophrenia, for which she should have prompt testing.”

“What does that mean?” Thetis demands nervously.

“It means we conduct a mental health assessment,” the nurse explains patiently. “Remember, you told me that sometimes you hear voices, and see things which aren’t there? These are symptoms of a disorder…like a sort of mental sickness. If you do have one, it’s very important you get it sorted as it may be impacting your ability to parent Achilles.”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” Thetis parrots immediately. “And I’m not taking any bloody thing neither.”

The experts exchange a look. Patroclus wants to punch them. “We can cross that bridge when we come to it,” Alison says diplomatically. “But you know, regardless of the assessment you might want to seek some counselling out Thetis, for your anger and your low moods and your…your childhood-”

“-What’s the point?” Thetis barks. “It won’t help. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m going to make her a referral to Elysium,” the nurse informs Alison. “The support group. It’s up to her whether she goes or not. Moving on to Achilles: physically, he’s absolutely fine. Perfectly healthy, fit, robust boy. Slight Vitamin C deficiency, he could do with eating a few more vegetables. But aside from that there’s nothing to worry about. As for his mental health…while his moods are not nearly as volatile as his mother’s, there have been moments where he just flips and becomes extremely aggressive. He has clear anger management issues for which I would suggest counselling and a strict behavioural program. After having observed him for several weeks, I would also say he bears a lot of symptoms for ADHD, although he has never been tested. I’ve referred him for assessment but there’s quite a long waiting list.”

“Well that’s a start,” replies the Chair. “Come to think of it, you are quite fidgety aren’t you Achilles?”

Achilles, who had been shaking his leg and tapping a frantic rhythm out on his thigh ever since he’d sat down, shrugs.

“Anything else?” asks Alison.

“Yes,” replies the health expert. “I would also recommend a mental health assessment for Achilles. His symptoms are less drastic than Thetis’ but they are present. And this is really not my speciality, but some of his behaviour and relations with other people does border on the sociopathic. He can be very manipulative…charming…not to mention that he’s a pathological liar-”

“-Hey,” Achilles interrupts with a frown. _“Rude.”_

“Alright,” Alison makes a note. “If that’s all, shall we have a summary of the plan?”

There’s the sound of rustling papers as the experts straighten their notes. Juno’s taloned hands are folded in front of her, a glittering insect preparing to strike on unwitting prey. Briseis’ pen is poised, ready to scribble down anything crucial in her abysmal handwriting. Beside her, Thetis looks tense and white. There is a muscle leaping in her jaw.

“I think it’s a unanimous decision that the Care Plan ought to continue?” asks Alison, pausing while the experts nod their heads. “Ok. So, going ahead Juno will continue to work with this family. She’ll be monitoring your progress and making sure you’re doing everything we’ve discussed today. Thetis, you need to try your absolute hardest to make sure Achilles goes to school. That’s very important. Achilles, when you’re there you must _behave._ No more naughty pranks and fights or anything like that. Thetis, you need to make an appointment with your GP for your depression and anxiety. Your health visitor has made you a referral to the Elysium Project which is a support group for people who have similar issues to you. I know you don’t like the idea, but I think it would be really beneficial if you went. Psychological assessments for both of you will be conducted hopefully next month, if we can get that sorted. Apart from that, no unassessed males may frequent the home, no…er…crime, obviously, and…do try and drink less.”

“Drug test,” quips Juno idly.

“Oh yes, thank you Juno. Can we also have a drug test scheduled as soon as possible for mother.”

“What?” says Thetis loudly. “What drug test? I don’t take drugs!”

“Which is why you will have no objections,” replies Juno smoothly, and then to Alison: “I can have that booked within the fortnight.”

“Brilliant,” says Alison. “The next conference will be exactly one month from now…and that is the 4th March. In that time, Thetis and Achilles, it is of the utmost importance that you try and make as many of the changes as possible. We don’t want to have to go to Court any more than you do. Right, if that’s everything. Till next time.”

The effect of the words is automatic. At once people around the table start getting up, packing their things away and shouldering their bags before making a beeline for the door. A few of them stop to talk to one another and head down the corridor with loud, chattering voices. No one stops to acknowledge Thetis or Achilles however, except for a furtive parting glance, and for Briseis and Patroclus they might as well have been invisible.

When there’s finally space to move Briseis gets to her feet, beckoning for her party to follow her into one of the consultation rooms. Once inside Thetis loses it, berating the Local Authority with unrestrained fury; meanwhile Achilles hangs by the door, scuffing the peeling carpet with the toe of his running shoes. Patroclus watches him, for wont of anything else to look at. Briseis is attempting to calm Thetis down, speaking to her in a sympathetic yet authoritative voice which must have taken years of training while Thetis looks increasingly upset, running her hands frantically through her long black hair and blinking tears out of her eyes. Finally, under the influence of Briseis’ firm rationale her breathing appears to steady; she collapses into one of the blue plastic chairs with her head in her hands and allows Briseis to talk her through the decisions of the meeting and what she has to do.

At long last Thetis draws in a shuddering breath. She nods, her eyes hard and steely once again. They leave the consultation room and walk back into the waiting area where Juno is still there, fussing over the clasp of her bag.

“Oh Briseis, good,” she says automatically upon catching sight of her. “I got the Guardian’s report, thank you very much for sending it again.”

“Both copies, I hope?” replies Briseis, smiling sweetly.

“Yes,” Juno replies, lip curling very slightly. “Glad it wasn’t too much trouble. You’ll send the application for the drug testing, won’t you? I think it’s best if we get that out of the way as soon as possible. By the end of the week, I think.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Briseis assures her which is her way of saying _goodbye._

They shake hands rather coldly and then Juno leaves without a word to Thetis or Achilles. Once she has left Briseis releases the breath she had been holding in and turns to Thetis.

“I still need your paperwork for your Legal Aid application,” she tells her. “Do you know when you’ll be able to bring it in?”

“Friday,” Thetis replies. “I’m working tomorrow.”

Briseis nods and Thetis makes to leave, Achilles close at her heel. Before he gets to the door however he turns to around, his gaze searching for Patroclus’. When he meets it, he smiles.

“Thanks for the game,” he says. “It was fun.”

The glass door slides open. He leaves. Briseis looks quizzically at Patroclus. “What game?”

“We played chess,” Patroclus explains.

Briseis’ dark eyebrows fly up in surprise. “You did?” she questions. “Who won?”

 _“He_ did,” replies Patroclus as they make their own way out of St Augustine’s. “In about _five minutes.”_

“No way,” says Briseis chuckling. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, really good?”

“I _am_ really good,” states Patroclus, bristling.

“Well clearly not if you just got beat by a fifteen-year-old care client.”

“Age is no indicator of ability,” Patroclus lectures her. “Bobby Fischer was an international grand master at fifteen.”

“Right, and who is that?”

“I – seriously? Never mind,” Patroclus mutters crossly, yanking open the door to their building as Briseis chuckles at his annoyance.

There is a fresh stack of letters on his desk when he gets back. Patroclus makes coffee and takes care of them while Briseis settles back into her chair and begins to write the follow-up letter to Thetis. When Patroclus returns from the post-room he lifts Briseis’ minutes from by her elbow with the intention of typing up the attendance note. He can just about make sense of her shorthand, but he pities anyone else who might end up with this file. As he alternates between typing and squinting at Briseis’ barely legible scribbles, he finds himself re-reading over Thetis’ and Achilles’ criminal convictions and remembers that he hadn’t actually asked what was in the police report.

“Hey dude,” he calls to Briseis. “What did the PO say?”

Briseis sighs, taking a long sip of coffee before replying. “I mean, you can pretty much guess,” she replies. “The Local Authority basically think the men visiting her property are ‘clients’, for want of a better word, which she basically admitted to. She refused to accept the word prostitution,” she amends quickly as Patroclus looks bewildered. “It’s not, like, a formal business or anything. But she makes useful friends, strikes up deals. Gives them what they want in exchange for food, money, trainers for Achilles, etc.”

“Drugs?” Patroclus guesses.

Briseis makes a non-commital gesture. “From the report, it sounded more like she was the one supplying them,” she answers with a vague gesture. “I think she’s got a pretty good thing going as a dealer. Whether she partakes of the merchandise remains to be seen.”

“What do you think?” asks Patroclus.

Briseis shrugs. “My instincts tell me yes,” she says, looking pensive. “Physically she looks like someone who might be using. She’s _very_ thin. Apart from that, a lot of her mental health symptoms could have been caused or worsened by drug use. We know she has hallucinations, paranoia, anxiety. That could be down to cannabis alone.”

Patroclus frowns. “You can’t get your kids stolen for smoking weed, can you?”

“You can if it affects your parenting,” Briseis replies with another shrug. “Which it looks like it most certainly _does._ Risky men coming and going…playing _video games_ with him…but more than anything it seems she just can’t control him. Some of the stuff about him in the police report made Thetis’ offences seem petty.”

Patroclus thinks privately that it would be difficult for even the soberest person in the world to control Achilles, but says nothing.

***

The next day finds Patroclus alone. Briseis is at Court in Mansfield, leaving Patroclus with not very much work and even less company. Patroclus is not one usually inclined to seek social interaction if it can be avoided (see previous chapter; ignoring an invite to what, for all intents and purposes, sounded like a perfectly pleasant time in favour of solitude and Star Wars), however, a good three hours of complete silence with no one to tell his puns to is starting to take its toll. He very much depends on Briseis for his survival at work, just as she does on him. They are soldiers in a solemn war and their mission is being friends. If either of them were to fail in this mission, it would be only a matter of time before the other self-destructs.

Also, it’s really hard not having someone around to laugh with in a job like this. Not to sound insensitive or anything, but some things are just funny. Patroclus is in the post room, reading a very large bundle while waiting for the machine to photocopy it for Court; meanwhile Pam, the surly matron from supplies stacks the shelves with file dividers. Suddenly Patroclus let out a loud snort of amusement.

“Listen to this guy Pam,” he tells her. “Listen: ‘The reason the drug test came up positive for ketamine is because I have spent a lot of time at the vets recently, for my cat who has asthma. Because I was standing quite close to the horses, the chemicals they use must have found a way into my system while I was there.’ Is that not the most classically brilliant thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life?”

From behind steely wire-frames, Pam blinks at him.

“It’s cool Pam,” Patroclus assures her. “We all have our own sense of humour.”

Pam purses her lips and leaves, muttering darkly about idiocy in today’s youth. Patroclus groans and spreads himself eagle style over the copy machine. Looks like the mechanical touch of kinetic power is as close to human warmth as he’s going to get.

 _“Somebody to talk to,”_ he sings feebly to himself. _“Somebody to talk tooo.”_

It’s a little early in the day for The Police, and one has to be a very specific amount of drunk to appreciate white reggae, but Patroclus is _sad._

The post room phone rings. Patroclus ignores it in favour of the impersonal caress of the copy machine. But then reception’s voice comes crackly through the receiver: “Patroclus to reception, please. Patroclus to reception” and his head snaps up to attention.

He’s never called to reception unless pre-arranged by Briseis, to see a client when she’s unable. His first thought is his mother come to drop in on him. It wouldn’t be out of character exactly, and she has done so before, except he’s pretty sure she has work today. His second thought is a friend but he chases that away. Patroclus’ friends have all gone to unis of varying degrees of proximity and, apart from Briseis, he doesn’t have any at home. Unless you count his nan or Dee-Dee, which he, you know, doesn’t.

Curiosity piquing, Patroclus tells the receiver he’ll be down in a minute and practically shoots out of the office and down the stairs to reception, leaving the majority of his bundle still uncopied. He’s not exactly sure what to expect upon opening the doors to the waiting room. He’s fairly certain, however, that Achilles, leaning over the counter and chatting animatedly to the receptionist, was not at the top of his theories.

Patroclus falters in his step. Achilles breaks off his conversation to turn his head towards him, face breaking into a glittering smile. “Hey bro,” he greets him. “How’s it going?”

“This young man came to see you Patroclus,” the receptionist tells him. Patroclus can’t help noticing that her cheeks are rather pink, and that she is fiddling with her hair in a way that borders on the coquettish.

Patroclus takes a few wary steps towards Achilles. He is dressed today in a long-sleeved t-shirt depicting a cartoon of Garry Kasparov, jeans, grey zip-up hoody, and a heavy brown jacket. They are clothes which look like they belong to someone much older than him. A skateboard is slung casually under one arm.

Patroclus glances at it, and then at Achilles. “What are you doing here?” he demands.

Achilles raises an eyebrow. “Chill man,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “I came to give you this.”

He pulls out a thick brown envelope. Patroclus takes a second to register that he is wearing fingerless gloves before taking it and slitting it open. The envelope contains birth certificates, wage slips, bank statements, benefits receipts. Everything Briseis had told Thetis to bring for the Legal Aid application. Patroclus puts back the contents of the envelope and looks up at Achilles.

“Your mum was supposed to bring this tomorrow,” he says, frowning.

Achilles shrugs. “She had work,” he replies. “I had nothing better to do.”

“It’s a _Thursday,”_ Patroclus tells him. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Achilles’ grin widens, all sharp points and snake-like venom. “It got cancelled.”

Something in the way he says it, combined with the snake’s smile, puts Patroclus on immediate edge. “Did you do something?” he asks.

 _“Someone_ put rotting fish guts in all the air vents overnight,” replies Achilles’ nonchalantly. “You should smell it, bro. It’s like someone died. _Cadavers_ everywhere.”

Patroclus is briefly filled with a sudden sense of horror that he had given Achilles the idea. He suppresses it however in favour of fixing his expression into one of suitable adult superiority. “Achilles, did you not hear a _word_ of what was said yesterday? It’s stuff like this which is only going to make things worse for yourself!”

“Hey man, look who’s pointing fingers,” says Achilles reproachfully. “No one said it was me. What is it you lawyers are always saying? Innocent until proven guilty, right?”

There isn’t really anything to say to this and anyway it’s not Patroclus’ job to play Children’s Guardian so he slips the envelope under his arm. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Achilles scuffs the toe of his running shoe into the carpet, looking all of a sudden slightly sheepish. “So what are you doing?”

Patroclus raises an eyebrow. “Work?” he says, and then feels bad for being unimaginative. “Filling out a form on you, actually. A Section 25.”

Achilles’ eyes practically glitter with delight. “What’s that?”

“It’s an application for a psychological assessment,” explains Patroclus. “You know. To see if you’re a sociopath or not.”

Achilles hums in understanding, not looking particularly bothered by this pronouncement. “Sandy doesn’t think I’m a sociopath,” he says with a flirtatious glance towards the receptionist. “Do you, Sandy?”

Fifty-year-old Sandy tries to look severe, however the effect is ruined by the decidedly un-fiftyish giggle that escapes her. “I think you’re a very naughty boy,” she reprimands him. “Who ought to be in school.”

“That’s not what you think,” Achilles shakes his head. “People are always saying what they don’t really think.”

He yawns and stretches, opening his mouth wide and pink like a cat’s. “I’m hungry,” he states with a quick look at Patroclus. “It’s nearly your lunch break, is’nit? Do you wanna buy me a Maccies?”

Patroclus laughs. “No.”

Achilles fixes him with a level, calculating glance. It is not hostile nor particularly invasive, still it doesn’t fail to make Patroclus feel profoundly uncomfortable. “I don’t have any money,” he states flatly without breaking his gaze. “My mum forgot to give me any.”

Guilt stirs in Patroclus’ gut at this deadpanned truth, but he refuses to let himself be persuaded. “I can’t,” he says, trying to sound emphatic. “It’s wouldn’t be-”

 _“-Appropriate,_ right,” Achilles says with a sneer, rolling his eyes contemptuously. “I get it. That’s chill. You should know though, seeing as I’m hungry and I don’t have any money, that I can’t be blamed for stealing something. And if I see something _else_ that takes my fancy while I’m at it…and I get caught…well man, that’s on you.”

Patroclus cannot rightly believe what he has just heard. For a moment he just stares at Achilles, too struck with shock to say anything. Sandy the receptionist has mysteriously disappeared throughout the course of this exchange, so he can’t even check with her that she is also hearing this. At long last he manages to find his voice enough to rasp: “Are you _insane?_ You’re…you’re actually _blackmailing_ me into buying you a McDonalds?”

“I mean, when you look at it like that,” Achilles shrugs and then rolls his eyes again. “Look dude, I’m mostly pulling your dick. I’m probably _not_ going to get myself caught stealing something. I care about my mum too much to get in trouble with the police right now. What I’ll _probably_ do is go the day hungry, or find someone else who _will_ buy me a Maccies. But like, you can stop both those things happening _and_ save me the trouble of batting my eyelashes for a Chicken Legend if you man up and come the fuck with me.”

“Can’t I just give you three quid?” Patroclus asks desperately.

Achilles shakes his head. “You can,” he answers easily. “But I might spend it on baccy.”

He smiles innocently, childishly, head cocked to the side like an inquisitive peacock. Patroclus isn’t quite sure what to do. He has never been extorted by a child before. Not that there is anything particularly young about Achilles right now, in fact, at this moment he strikes Patroclus as centuries old; out of his shining, flushed, boy’s face Patroclus sees the crooked peddler of Victorian streets, a muddied urchin sifting through quagmire for coppers, a wizened merchant displaying bolts of fine colour and boasting travels from Toledo to Istanbul. His smile is that of an adolescence’s, his cheek fair and unlined but his eyes, shrewd and perceptive are ancient and immortal.

“Fine,” Patroclus gives in. _“Fine._ Come on.”

Achilles does a mini fist pump that causes Patroclus a lot of effort not to find endearing. “You’re the best,” he says, leading the way out the door and onto the street.

“I’m the worst,” mutters Patroclus, closing the door behind him.

***

The walk into Dalham town centre _can_ be a pleasant one. This is, however, contingent on a number of factors, the principle here being that of the weather. Everything always looks better in the sun; the battered buildings, the dirty streets, the people. Somehow, the darker the sky it only serves to illuminate the sheer _poverty_ of the place, which usually manifests itself in sickness. Dalham is sick, as only a town in a Dickensian novel can be sick. Its citizens totter shakily by with the help of sticks or false legs, or else glide past on mobility scooters like a bizarre parody of the futuristic. Drunkards and addicts walk even less steadily and some, huddled in sleeping bags and shivering from the winter chill, don’t walk at all. On days like these, when it is possible to estimate the economic health of a place by the number of skin lesions, the walk into Dalham is anything but pleasant.

These are not the eyes through which Achilles looks at the streets of his city. His walk is jaunty, cheerful, a little Artful Dodger with his hands in the pockets of his jeans and his skateboard tucked under one arm. Patroclus misses the presence of a flat cap, drawn at a rakish angle.

The McDonalds is the first building on the edge of the high street. Inside it is busy, it being lunch hour, and mostly packed with secondary students. Patroclus approaches the counter, wrinkling his nose against the smell of grease, cheap meat and sweat.

“What do you want?” he asks, looking blackly at Achilles.

Achilles’ eyes flicker over the board briefly. “Chicken legend with chips,” he replies, then adds “Please.”

Patroclus repeats the order to the server at the till and hands him the money. “I hope you realise I’m sacrificing my principles for this,” he tells Achilles.

Achilles gives him a look. “They _have_ a veggie option,” he points out.

Patroclus feels a flit of surprise that Achilles a) remembered he was Buddhist and b) accurately equated that knowledge to assume vegetarianism, but felt it would be condescending to praise him on this. “It’s more to do with the ethics of a global corporate empire than the meat industry,” he replies as the server hands him his receipt. “If you can call what they serve meat.”

Achilles snickers. _“It’s more to do with the ethics of a global corporate empire,”_ he repeats in a pompous, sing-song mockery. “Ooh, I’m Patroclus, I’m so rich I only buy Boots meal deals from Waitrose-”

“How would I buy a Boots meal deal from Waitrose? That’s just a cross-categorisation of merchandise.”

“Ooh, I’m Patroclus, I’m so clever I say ‘merchandise’ instead of ‘food’.”

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t make sense if Waitrose just suddenly decided to sell Boots meal deals-”

“Ooh, I’m Patroclus, I’m so rich I can afford to make sense-”

“Alright, shut up and take your chicken,” Patroclus cuts him off, accepting the paper bag from the counter and thrusting it into Achilles’ eagerly waiting arms, muttering under his breath, “Little shit.”

Achilles’ face lights up, mouth breaking into an ecstatic grin. _“That_ was not very appropriate,” he chastises him.

“Well I might as well go all the way,” replies Patroclus, following Achilles out. “No point in half measures.”

Achilles looks amused at that, although it could just be smugness as he fishes a handful of chips out of the paper bag and tosses them into his mouth. “Thanks bro,” he says, voice muffled with his mouth full. “You’re a Good Samaritan.”

Patroclus doesn’t reply with the truth, which is that he is feels much closer to the opposite end of the spectrum right now. Oblivious, Achilles focuses on ripping through his chips as fast as he can, as if worried they might wriggle through the bottom of the bag and hop away. They sit down on a bench on the opposite side of the street to give Achilles better access in this endeavour; he offers some to Patroclus who declines, despite the fact that his stomach is responding more than positively to the smell of hot fast food.

Achilles looks bored at him. “Is this more guilt complex?” he asks. “If it makes you feel better dude, I probably would have stolen a sandwich. And probably, like, an iPhone.”

“It’s 'oil made from meat fat' complex,” Patroclus replies. “Anyway, how come your vocabulary’s so good? You use words that…you use words I don’t hear that often, from other people I’ve worked with.”

Achilles smirks. “Is that a way of saying the people you work with are thick as shit?”

 _“No,”_ says Patroclus resolutely, because it isn’t – it’s hardly his clients’ fault they had other things to deal with than the meaning of ‘guilt complex’. “People have different priorities, that’s all. And for someone who decidedly hates school, it’s interesting that you have such a good command of language.”

Achilles takes a large bite out of his sandwich, looking very amused. “Shit man,” he says through a disgusting mouthful. “I didn’t know that I had a _good command of language._ I thought I just knew a lot of ‘big words’.” He swallows hard and licks his lips, looking thoughtful. “I dunno. I just pick things up, I guess. My teacher says I have a brain like a sponge.”

He wipes his mouth and sucks the salt off the pink tips of his fingers protruding from their woollen gloves. “Words are ok,” he says after some consideration. “I get bored of them, though.”

Patroclus frowns. “What does that mean?”

Achilles shrugs. “It just means I’d rather _do,”_ he answers, finishing off the remainder of his sandwich. “Then sit around talking my fucking mouth off all day.”

He leans back and his coat flaps open, revealing his ridiculous t-shirt. Patroclus shakes his head, unable to stop himself from smiling. Noticing, Achilles raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your t-shirt,” Patroclus replies, grinning.

Achilles looks down, as if he had forgotten he was wearing one at all. “Kasparov. What a guy,” he looks up again and his grin matches Patroclus’. “What do you like, apart from chess?”

Patroclus laughs. “You want me to list all of the things I like?”

Instead of answering, Achilles just blinks at him.

“Erm, ok,” Patroclus racks his brains, trying to think of anything they could possibly have in common. “Uhh…music?”

At once, Achilles’ thrusts out his hand. “Let me see.”

Patroclus hesitates, unsure of the wisdom of handing a self-confessed thief his not inexpensive smart phone. It is difficult to say no to Achilles’ expression, however, and Patroclus watches as Achilles thumbs through the list of Patroclus’ music, every now and then making agreeable and disagreeable noises.

“Fucking hipster,” he mutters darkly, shaking his head at Bon Iver. “What’s this?”

He shows Patroclus the screen. Moving his thumb, Patroclus sees that it had been resting on Metronomy. He lets out a low cackle.

“Oh my God dude,” he says, fishing out his earphones. “Prepare for your mind to be _blown.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your fabulous comments! Please keep them coming :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooo  
> sorry its a week late - i do in fact have an excuse. It was my birthday over the weekend and while my lack of time/physical state may have had something to do with my opportunity to update, my motivation was more affected by the feeling of impending doom upon turning 20.  
> Warning for some gore and other unpleasantries in this chapter. The latter being mostly Achilles.

Patroclus spends the remaining hour of his lunch break educating Achilles; here meaning, introducing him to the seductive danger that is the world of nu-disco electronica. The world might not be ready for an Achilles who likes Metronomy, however Patroclus is willing to throw caution to the wind in this one instance. By ten to two Achilles’ expression has gone through what Briseis and Patroclus like to call the Three Stages of Enlightenment, morphing from disgusted incredulity halfway through _Back Together_ to curiosity to finally, upon reaching _Love’s Not An Obstacle_ , rapture.

When at last it’s time for Patroclus to head back to the office, Achilles plucks out his earphone and holds it at arm’s length, shaking his head at Patroclus.

“What do you think?” Patroclus presses him.

“I think it’s _disgusting,”_ replies Achilles, with feeling.

Patroclus laughs. “But it’s good, right?”

Achilles grunts in response, clearly repulsed by himself. Patroclus can relate. Self-hatred is a necessary step in conversion. He’s learned to push past it; once you’re this far deep into the void it’s easier to just embrace the darkness. He watches smugly as Achilles saves the album onto his own Spotify and actually he really has no right to say anything whatsoever because Patroclus has just seen Rise Against, Nickelback and Avenged Sevenfold on his downloaded artists.

“This was fun,” says Achilles as they walk back through the High Street. “You should buy me lunch again.”

“Mmm,” Patroclus responds without thinking, then once his brain has actually processed what he’s agreeing to, amends quickly. “Wait, no-”

Achilles barks out a laugh. “Relax man,” he admonishes. “You make a better date when you chill out.”

“This was _not_ a date!”

“Um, hello,” Achilles raises three gloved fingers, ticking them off with his other hand. “One: there was food. Two: you paid. Three: there was music. _If_ you can call that abomination music-”

“-Ooh _abomination_ , big word,” Patroclus teases, eyebrow raised.

Achilles shrugs. “A lady called me it the other day.”

They’ve reached the turn off. Patroclus gestures vaguely towards his left, indicating that he will be going in that direction. He feels a little awkward, like there should be some kind of goodbye. Sure Achilles only blackmailed him into buying him a McDonalds, but they did just spend a substantial portion of the afternoon together. And sure it was incredibly inappropriate and Patroclus would probably get in trouble if anyone at work found out but, and Patroclus feels a squirming of guilt even in admitting this to himself, Achilles wasn’t wrong. It _was_ fun.

“So I’ll call you or you call me?” Achilles grins, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’ll call your mother from the office to arrange an appointment with her solicitor for her next legal meeting,” replies Patroclus.

“Mmm talk dirty to me,” says Achilles and Patroclus _gags._

Achilles slips his skateboard out from under his arm and places it on the pavement. “Thanks for the food,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”

He puts his foot down and kicks off. Patroclus watches him go, manoeuvring skilfully around old ladies and prams, before shaking his head and heading back to the office.

***

If there was a generous God, Fridays would be the easiest day of the week. Unfortunately, and in flagrant disregard of Patroclus’ impeccable karma, they are often the most punishing on account that Patroclus’ first lecture begins at the ridiculous time of 7.30am. Then he has a full morning of seminars until 1.30 at which point, depending on the day, he goes into work. The firm lets him alternate his Friday afternoons so that he has time to actually do his work. Small mercies which in no way make up for this unjust, punishing regime.

There is also the fact that at 7.30am, Patroclus is in literally no mood to deal with Dee-Dee Mia Levy. Dee-Dee is a morning person, which while for most normal people just means being slightly more chipper than their peers at arse o’clock, for Dee-Dee means keeping up a tirade of one-sided conversation, broken only by the necessity of silence during lectures. Patroclus shares all of her seminars and for some reason this necessitates Dee-Dee following him around the entire day, jabbering on and on in her nasal voice and faux-American accent about the sordid affairs of their classmates _Because, like, everyone_ knows _she’s banging Professor Davies so it’s not like I spilled a secret or anything. And, like, Jesus if you’re going to drop acid in the middle of a fucking club maybe don’t be off your tits on mandy as well?? Whatever, all I’m saying is pick your moment._ It is a test of mettle and more often than not Patroclus finds himself praying for the sweet release of death, if at least just to get him through until the next period. He is a Buddhist, after all.

They have just come out of their final class and Dee-Dee is recounting her epic showdown with Bradley Pierce which, as do most debates between law ungraduates, began as a playful academic discussion and degenerated into a shouting match about class warfare. Patroclus is listening with half an ear, his thoughts stuck on the Nereida case. Briseis had sent him a text earlier saying she’s processed the Legal Aid application and is now waiting for the agency to get back, meaning soon she will be Thetis and Achilles’ official solicitor. Patroclus is glad. If anyone else acts for the family, it would mean he would get to work less on the case. After his not-a-date with Achilles, regardless of how unsuitable it was, he feels somewhat invested.

“Hello? Patroclus?”

Jolted out of his reverie, Patroclus blinks to see Dee-Dee staring at him pointedly. “What?”

Dee-Dee purses her pink lip-glossed lips, looking unimpressed. “I was _saying_ that Pierce tried to defend himself by saying that his friend Alex Lakin is bisexual. So _I_ said that just because you have a grand total of one queer friend doesn’t cancel out the fact that you’re a Tory bastard. In fact, the minimum for a straight has just been raised to two. Which like, everyone found really funny and whatever. But anyway, I’ve met Lakin and he is actually ok, like, I feel like he would vote Lib Dem if he could but I’m not gonna hold that against him, if you know what I mean? Anyway, I feel like you guys would get on.”

Despite how much practice Patroclus has had in decoding Dee-Dee’s intricate and complex mechanisms of conversation, it takes him a while for him to understand what she’s actually saying. When he does, he shakes his head instantly. “No,” he states emphatically. “No, you are _not_ setting me up. Not again.”

“Oh don’t be such an infant,” Dee-Dee rolls her eyes. “Alex is good-looking, ok? And he does Economics or PPE or something so he’s _gonna_ be smart.”

“Will Hudson,” Patroclus snaps a reminder.

The last time Dee-Dee tried to set Patroclus up on a blind date, he had rashly said yes just to stop her yammering on and on about how he was a coward who never took any risks and would die alone and unloved as a result. This had ended up with Patroclus sitting in the local Spoon’s with rugby player Will Hudson, trying to finish his vodka cranberry as quick as possible while the enormous scrum-half alternated between belting out drinking songs and breaking down into a fit of sobs while he told Patroclus how scared he was of disappointing his teammates and father. Patroclus isn’t sure why he only seems to attract very large men who are painfully and very solidly still in the closet. He thinks it might be something about his unthreatening and rather twinkish physique.

“This is _nothing like that,”_ Dee-Dee snaps back. “Alex is out, and he’s dated plenty of guys. Way more guys than _you,_ I bet. Plus he does Debating which is super hot, and, like, the polar-opposite of rugby.”

Patroclus thinks briefly that the polar-opposite of rugby is actually chess but he chases that thought away as swiftly as it had come. Instead he glares at Dee-Dee and asks: “So why don’t you date him, then” because honestly, Dee-Dee is only ever this complimentary about guys she’s slept with.

As if she had heard this silent challenge, Dee-Dee sends him a black look in response. “Real mature Mendis,” she snarls sniffily. “Whatever. So I don’t want people to think you’re a lonely loser, cuff me. I’m just looking out for you.”

“Thanks, but don’t waste your energy,” replies Patroclus shortly. He does not feel the need to be grateful for Dee-Dee’s persistent investment in his life. They are not friends. He’s not even sure if he likes her. Mostly, he thinks her constant nagging and setting-up comes less from a place of good-will and more out of a desire to collect him. The current minimum of queer friends for a straight girl has just been raised to two, after all.

They have reached the campus entrance. Patroclus makes ready to steer himself in the direction of the bus stop but then Dee-Dee says “You’ve got work, right? I’m meeting a friend in Dalham now, I can give you a lift” and Patroclus is not about to turn down a free ride, regardless of how grating the conversation.

He follows Dee-Dee to the car park where her white Fiat 500 sits wedged between two much pricier vehicles. Once in, Patroclus takes a moment to brace himself for the fresh wave of diatribe to follow with Dee-Dee behind the wheel; however, thankfully she turns on the music player and the dulcet tones of angry female pop music satisfy the need for conversation for the next fifteen minutes.

There isn’t too much traffic, most people already being at work or in school, and it’s an easy drive out of town. Once they hit the motorway Dee-Dee winds down the window, all the better to shout along to the words, the pinnacle of lyrical genius here being the rhyme “walls of China” with “vagina”. Patroclus winds down his own window, appreciating the feeling of the wind hitting his face and tugging at his hair, and allows his thoughts to wonder. Personally, it would not have been his choice to move to this particular region of England. He appreciates his parents had somewhat limited choice, on account of fleeing actual Civil War. But once you leave the suburbs you get into UKIP territory and the town he lives in is not much better and Dalham…well, Dalham is a shithole. But the surrounding countryside is pretty, if not quite enough to make up for the racists, and Patroclus spends a pleasant few minutes watching the little rivers and rolling hills go by as the landscape shifts from brown to green.

Then Dee-Dee is speaking to him again and his moment of calm is punctured like a missile through a hot-air balloon. “You given any more thought about this party?”

It takes Patroclus a second to remember the leaflet Dee-Dee had forced into his hand two days ago, currently stuffed at the bottom of his rucksack. “Uh…yeah,” he says uncomfortably. “I’m not going.”

He sees Dee-Dee cut her eyes at him in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to?” Patroclus suggests and then because Dee-Dee clearly isn’t satisfied with that answer, “It won’t be an enjoyable experience for me.”

“How do you know unless you try?” Dee-Dee counters. “Have you ever even been to a party before?”

“Yes, I’ve been to a party,” Patroclus rolls his eyes. He went to two in high school, and one at the very start of term. Combined, it was enough of an experience for him to kind of have gotten the gist by now. “I went to Daniel Mitchell’s in freshers’ week.”

“Ok, well that was shit,” Dee-Dee assents, taking the second exit at the round-about. “But this one’s gonna be good. Dice is supplying.”

Dice, or “Dionys Eleutherios” or “Bacci” (Patroclus will never understand the lengths some people will go to hide their ethnicity) is one of those semi-godlike individuals who occupy the twilight fringes of myth and legend around campus. Patroclus has heard Dice referred to alternatively as both drug dealer and magician; supposedly the substances they sell are beyond anything you can get off the common market. This, plus the fact that, despite their constant presence around campus and at every major event, no one seems to know very much about them, adds to their air of mystery. Also, Patroclus has never been certain of their gender. He thinks they might go by “he” but can’t be sure, so he uses “they” to be safe. No one has ever corrected him.

“Well you know if there’s one way to my heart, it’s through hipster drugs,” says Patroclus dryly.

“Sorry, I forgot you were boring. But _also_ Dice knows a guy and got Zebrah Minti to play.”

“Minty zebra? Did you make that up on a random generator?”

“No. Come on. They supported Lil Yachty at Tempo. You know them.”

“I really don’t.”

“You do.”

“Sing me something.”

Dee-Dee hums a short tune that Patroclus can only assume is an approximation of some kind of remix. He shakes his head. Dee-Dee sighs.

“What are you gonna do if you don’t come?” she demands. “Sit around in your boxers and read comic books? How do you ever expect to make friends if you don’t leave your cave?”

“I meet people at work,” replies Patroclus, thinking of Achilles and mentally chastising himself.                                                                                        

In the rear-view mirror, Dee-Dee’s eyes narrow. “If you think you can throw me off by rubbing it in my face that you have a job it won’t work,” she says. “I would rather be unemployed than a miserable misanthrope like – FUCK.”

They have hit traffic. Dee-Dee jolts the car to a stop behind a blue van and Patroclus lifts his chin to see over the top. It seems to stretch on for miles, in the distance a gleaming silver ribbon alongside the dark trees at the edge of the motorway. Dee-Dee swears again and Patroclus feels his heart sink. There’s no way he’s going be on time if this doesn’t clear up quickly. He pulls out his phone and types a quick explanatory text to Briseis, telling her he’s going to be in late.

Dee-Dee cranes her neck and peers out the window. “This looks bad,” she observes. “Must have been one hell of an accident.”

“You’re right,” nods Patroclus, pointing. “Look.”

Dee-Dee follows his gaze and gasps. Just a few metres away from them four police cars are parked by the side of the road overlooking a field, red and blue lights flashing, and between them a squat ambulance. Dee-Dee leans as much of her body as can fit out the window so that Patroclus fears she might fall out.

“Can you see the car?” Patroclus asks her.

Dee-Dee’s black bob bounces around her shoulders. “No,” she replies. “But I can see a lot of yellow tape…fuck, you know what, I don’t think it’s an accident. I think it’s a _crime scene.”_

“What?” asks Patroclus, following Dee-Dee’s lead in opening the car door and climbing out. Sure enough, once out of the car Patroclus sees that behind the number of police vehicles there is a stretch of yellow tape, marking off a section of the field. What’s more a handful of police officers are stood about pacing nervously, speaking into their intercoms and apparently taking notes.

Patroclus and Dee-Dee watch the officers’ movements, aware of several other drivers having exited their own cars to do the same. A handful of paramedics have now climbed out from the ambulance; Patroclus sees the flash of their fluorescent jackets and then nothing more as they disappear behind the barrier of yellow tape.

Beside him, Dee-Dee is standing on her tip-toes. “I want to see,” she whines bitterly, nylon talons digging into Patroclus’ shoulder as she seeks to keep her balance. “Oh my god. Fuck it. I’m going over.”

“What,” says Patroclus stupidly even as Dee-Dee releases him and begins to wind her way through the cars. “What the – Dee-Dee! Come _back!_ You can’t do that, it’s a _crime-scene!”_

“Shut up,” Dee-Dee barks back over her shoulder.

Powerless, Patroclus stands, running a hand through his hair distractedly as he watches Dee-Dee weave in and out of the vehicles; her petite, zigzagging figure barely noticeable with the distraction of the police up ahead. Patroclus feels like he should shout out another word of warning, or at least attempt to drag her back, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to her. In the end he settles on waiting impatiently, drumming a frantic rhythm out on the hood of the Fiat and anxiously craning his neck for a sight of her return.

The wait feels like a lifetime. There has been very little change from what Patroclus can see, with some police officers leaving and returning to their previous spots and others disappearing into their flashing vehicles. Several people, having found the excitement of the crime scene a transient one, have returned to their own cars and original resentment of the hold-up. Patroclus hears the trumpeting of horns and, not for the first time in his life, ponders on their invention. Like seriously, what kind of salty bastard thought it crucial for the driver to have a completely pointless means of exhibiting his passive aggression/sexual frustration? Like “ _oh my God dude what if we had a really obnoxious car fart we could sound whenever we felt like a horny arsehole?” “Stan, you’re a motherfucking genius let’s call it a horny-arse” “or…like…car horn would do” “car horn WOULD do.”_

The world would probably be a nicer place with less Stans in it.

Patroclus is still mediating on these troubling thoughts when the sight of Dee-Dee, worming her way behind the van yanks him out of his reverie. At once his anxiety returns. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” he hisses as she reaches him.

Dee-Dee waves him away dismissively. “Oh quiet down,” she tuts. “They didn’t see me. I’m, like, super sneaky.”

Dee-Dee’s eyes are wild and bright, her cheeks flushed with adrenalin. Patroclus just shakes his head at her, dumbfounded as she climbs back into her car and buckles herself in. Patroclus follows suit, wrestling with warring feelings of frustration, disapproval and reluctant admiration. He does not want to sanction or encourage such reckless, chaotic-neutral behaviour. However, he also really, _really_ wants to know what was going on. Luckily, he is refrained from having to ask by Dee-Dee, promptly whipping round to face him, pupils blown wide as she begins to gush.

“Oh my _God_ Patroclus, you won’t even guess,” she begins, the words rolling into each other in her haste to spill them out. “It’s the third one they’ve found. You know, of the creepy murders? Like that Percy guy? Anyway I _saw_ it. The body.”

“Fuck off,” breathes Patroclus in a hushed mix of wonder and terror.

Dee-Dee shakes her head. “They were wheeling it into the ambulance when I got there,” she rushes. “Most of it was covered but I saw the head. _Fuck,_ dude. There was like, a whole chunk missing from his skull. You could see the brain and everything. Or, you know, lack thereof.”

“Jesus,” Patroclus whispers, insides curdling uncomfortably. Quite apart from his dislike of gore, he thinks there’s something pretty tactless about describing a human being as if it were a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. At the same time, he can’t deny the twinge of dark curiosity in him, hankering for more detail. Detail Dee-Dee is only too willing to supply.

“Also,” she continues, voice absent of any such qualms. “I saw his arm dangling off the edge of the gurney. He had, like, tracks all the way up it, like someone had tried to take the blood out. It was fucking grim.”

“Exactly the same as the last two,” says Patroclus, remembering the article Briseis had read out to him only a few days ago.

Dee-Dee nods. “Sounds to me like we have ourselves a serial killer on the loose.”

She falls back against the driver’s seat, whispering “fuck” again to herself and closing her eyes. Patroclus wishes that by doing so he could also block out the image of the dead body, its mangled skull still leaking brain matter and one limp arm, striped with blood and flopping loosely out from beneath a shield of plastic covering.

Eventually the ambulance doors are shut and the vehicle begins to pull away, followed closely by the police cars. Once their retreating red and blue lights dim completely the other cars begin to move and gradually the motorway resumes its rolling speed, a disrupted assembly line refitted with a fresh cog. At long last Dee-Dee and Patroclus are moving again and the countryside flashing by as if it had never once been static. Nevertheless, it’s as if Patroclus left a piece of himself at some place behind the yellow tape and for the rest of the journey he can’t shake the image of the crime-scene, emblazoned on his brain in all its graphic glory.

Soon the hills begin to flatten and the grey-brown, hideously 60s architecture of the Dalham town centre leers up in all its concrete supremacy. Dee-Dee drops Patroclus outside the office building; he thanks her and she drives away with a flash of her shocking pink nails. Once inside, Patroclus takes a moment to brace himself before heading upstairs.

The onslaught is as bad as he had imagined. Somehow the word has gotten around that the cause of the traffic jam Patroclus had been sitting in was partial-decapitation and homicide; as a result Patroclus is swarmed by secretaries and solicitors alike, hungry for the facts like crows around a cadaver. Unwilling to go into the details Patroclus brushes them off hastily, avoiding their clawing beaks and feathers in favour of the calm of the annex, where Briseis sits waiting for him.

“Greetings,” says Briseis as Patroclus slumps before his desk. “How was your brush with mortality?”

Patroclus makes a desperate, dramatic gesture. “Scarring??” he suggests. “Emotionally traumatic??”

Briseis’ dark eyes widen in shock. “You _saw_ the body?” she demands.

“No,” replies Patroclus, shaking his head. “But my friend…well…she’s not really my friend. My course mate, Dee-Dee…she jumped the yellow tape and crossed the crime scene. She saw pretty much everything.”

Briseis’ eyes are still wide, only this time a look of admiration has replaced her incredulity. “She _jumped the yellow tape?”_ she repeats, one eyebrow raised in respect. “That’s badass.”

 _“No,_ it’s reckless and irresponsible,” replies Patroclus, bristling instinctively. “There’s nothing ‘edgy’ or ‘badass’ in deliberately hurtling yourself into danger.”

Briseis chuckles. “There’s also nothing inherently dangerous in breaking the rules from time to time, Patroclus. Especially ones which don’t need to be there.”

“Rules are _there_ to protect us,” Patroclus mutters darkly.

Briseis’ chuckle clatters into a barking laugh. “Alright Ruley McRulesmith!” she exclaims, laughing louder at Patroclus’ black expression. “Mr Lawrie von Lawyerson!”

“I mean, you’re quite literally a lawyer.”

“Herre Obey Skars-Obeygaard.”

“Why am I now Danish.”

“Lord Benedict Conformbatch.”

“Stop.”

Having descended into a fit of hiccoughs, Briseis leaves to get a glass of water. Patroclus sees her go with very little distress, moving to turn on his computer. There are a couple of files left on his desk, as well as a telephone note to type up. Neither will take him much longer than fifteen minutes to complete and he resigns himself to another afternoon of mind-numbing drudgery when suddenly, his phone rings.

Patroclus frowns at the screen. It’s an unknown number. Still, having now had more than six months’ training in the secretarial arts, he decides to pick it up. “Hello?”

“So, it looks like I’m calling you after all.”

Patroclus bolts upright in his seat. He looks to his left and right. The annex is completely empty, the walls too thick with bundles and files for anyone in the adjacent offices to hear. Even so he bends lower to his desk, bringing his phone closer to his mouth in order to hiss into it: _“How did you get this number?!”_

The sound of Achilles’ laughter comes crackling through the receiver, raising hairs on the back of Patroclus’ neck. “I told you not just computers.”

And Patroclus doesn’t have any words to say to that, no space to think or comprehend or come up with anything remotely useful because Achilles hacked his phone, Achilles hacked his phone, _Achilles hacked his phone._

“You _HACKED_ my _PHONE?”_ Patroclus demands through gritted teeth.

Once, when he was about nine, Patroclus’ parents took him to see a production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream._ Patroclus had sat through both acts, gripping the edges of his seat in petrified terror. For him, the whole play had been a literal horror show. The actors all wore garish, bright make-up that made them look more like malevolent clowns than anything else and the fairies were farther removed from Disney than anything Patroclus had ever seen. However, the most terrifying thing of all had been Puck, and his high, chilling laughter. For weeks afterward Patroclus could still hear that laugh, childish and malignant, haunting the fringes of his dreams.

That was what Achilles’ laugh sounded like now.

Patroclus’ mind is a whirl. “You hacked my… _Jesus_ Achilles, you could get _arrested_ for this! _I_ could get you arrested for this!”

“Oh calm down,” Achilles says boredly and Patroclus pictures him rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I placed a tracking device in it or anything. The government already did that.”

“This is _not funny,”_ Patroclus growls. “Seriously dude, do you know how much trouble I could get in for this?”

“Oh what, because you’re the first person ever to have a client call them on a private number?” scoffs Achilles. “Big deal man.”

“It’s different and you know it,” Patroclus barks.

The moment he says it he regrets it. At the other end he can practically see Achilles bolting upright, yanking the phone closer in his excitement, eyes flashing as if it were a particularly juicy bite on the end of the line and not a hastily-spoken Patroclus. _“Really?”_ Achilles demands, voice pressing and gleeful. “And here’s me thinking we had a strictly professional business relationship-”

“-We _do_ have a strictly professional business relationship!”

“So what’s the issue, bro? Scared if I use your personal it might slip into…something else?”

Patroclus lets his head fall onto the desk in despair. The cool touch of wood does absolutely nothing to lessen the heat rising from his skin, or calm him down in any way. This might have something to do with Achilles, still cackling away in his ear. He is not quite sure what he has done to deserve this. Presumably this is karma, coming back to bite him in the arse for some terrible offence he must have committed in other life or whatever because there’s no way he’s done anything recently to merit such punishing retribution.

“Don’t call this number,” he tells Achilles.

He knows Achilles shrugs. “I’m gonna,” he replies.

“I’m blocking you.”

“You are _not,”_ Achilles counters. “What if something really bad happens, and I don’t have anyone to call except for you? It would be pretty irresponsible if you weren’t to pick up now, wouldn’t it?”

Patroclus cannot _believe_ this is the second time this week he will have been blackmailed by a child. “Is that why you’re calling?” he asks, filled with a sudden concern. “Did something bad happen?”

“Uh yeah,” Achilles affirms. “My PS4 broke. I’m trying to fix it but I don’t think we have the right kind of screwdriver.”

Patroclus is deceased. “I’m leaving now,” he says.

“Wait, wait,” Achilles stops him and _goddamn him_ Patroclus holds the line.

“What?” he snaps, preparing himself for some COD or HALLIBUT nonsense.

“Are you gonna come for my mum’s drug test?” Achilles asks.

Patroclus hesitates. There is something different in Achilles’ voice; not nervousness, exactly, but a tentativeness. A caution. Patroclus can’t work out whether Achilles wants him there because he doesn’t want to be alone while he watches his mum go through something like that, or whether this is just another ploy for Patroclus’ attention.

“Do you want me there?” he almost asks before he remembers himself and their professional, business relationship. Instead he says: “It depends on whether Briseis needs me, and how much work I have.”

Silence on the other end. During Patroclus feels something squirming in his stomach, something akin to guilt at his measured, taciturn reply to what could have been an emotional request, but he pushes the feeling away. After a few quiet seconds Patroclus is beginning to think Achilles has hung up when finally his voice comes, confident and arrogant as it had been a minute before.

“It’ll probably be boring as fuck,” he drawls, as if discussing some upcoming garden party and not whether or not his own mother has been taking heroin. “I might not even hang around. Will I see you at the next CPC thing?”

“Maybe,” Patroclus answers. “Probably not.”

Achilles lets out a huff of impatience. Patroclus feels the corners of his mouth twitch in repressed amusement. “You’re so dry, man. Bye.”

He’s gone before Patroclus has a chance to defend himself. As he slips his phone back into his pocket he registers vaguely that this is the second, third if you count Briseis’ taunts, time today that he has been accused of being boring. Maybe Dee-Dee and Achilles have a point; Patroclus is a square, Patroclus plays it by the book, carpe diem et ad astra as the Romans say (Patroclus also took Greek and Latin until AS when he realised it offered absolutely nothing to his life, still he does like to whip it out on occasion.) Or maybe the people he associates with like to partake in reckless exploits in order to fill up the hole of dissatisfaction deep within them. Anything is possible. Omnia sunt vera.

Briseis returns with two cups of coffee and Patroclus stuffs his phone hastily out of sight, as if hiding evidence of a guilty secret. Briseis looks at him quizzically but says nothing. Probably she thinks he’s looking at explicit fanart on Tumblr. She would have no reason to think this…except that she once caught him looking at explicit fanart on Tumblr.

“Did you hear back from Acesco?” Patroclus asks her. “For the drug test on Nereida?”

“Uh…yeah,” Briseis replies distractedly, sifting through the papers on her desk. “They said they should be able to send someone over for next Friday and they can conduct at the premises. That reminds me actually, I need to get a quote from them on the Kauffman case. Local Authority thinks dad’s taking meth again. Do you mind doing that?”

“No problem,” says Patroclus, opening up a new email. “We don’t usually go round for those, do we?”

Briseis shakes her head. “No, but Thetis wants me there.”

Patroclus looks up at her in surprise. “Really?” he says, eyebrow raised. “That’s good she trusts you.”

Patroclus hadn’t wanted to mention it to Briseis, but he had sort of got the feeling that Thetis hadn’t exactly warmed to her. Clearly however Briseis is thinking along similar lines, for she pulls a face and shakes her head. “I think it’s less that she trusts me,” she says. “And more that she really, _really_ distrusts Juno. She called me up earlier this morning just to rant about her.”

“Well fair,” shrugs Patroclus, typing in the email address for Acesco Drug Testing Services. “She is a bitch.”

Briseis nods affirmatively. “She is that.”

***

The middle of the day, the sun at its most cheerful despite the slate grey of late February and a pale, watery light falls onto the road as the last police cars leave the M1. The ambulance is long gone; the deceptive cheer of yellow and green disguising the fact of the corpse within. Left arm, mangled and lined. Head, almost without brain. Later, forensic evidence will say that the killer took a substantial portion of the frontal lobe and a smaller section of the amygdala. 1) Judgement, problem-solving control. 2) Emotion, survival, pleasure. Fear. The ego and the ID. On a very basic level, the two sovereign pendulums that govern our humanity.

 _According to Freud, that is,_ the man in the blue van thinks to himself, turning off at the roundabout and taking the third exit. And most things _are_ according to Freud, these days. Society remains obsessed with the man, even as we give ourselves supercilious airs at living in a “post-Freudian world” and most academics these days are only too willing to label the once father of psychanalysis charlatan, “Fr _aud”_ and quack. People these days turn their noses up upon hearing of the Oedipus Complex, scoffing “what rubbish” and making witty and significant remarks in regards to Freud’s own mental state.

Nevertheless, Freud or fraud, quack or no quack the man _shook_ the earth and since then no one has ever quite been able to shake _him._ As horrified and repulsed as people may be upon being told that they secretly lust after their mothers and hate their fathers, there’s no denying that the idea has its claws sunk deeply into the human psyche, an eternal paranoia that resurfaces again and again. Whether or not the Oedipus Complex existed before Freud there’s no doubt that it exists in our imaginations now; the same with trauma, repression, the subconscious and all his other great and more generally accepted theories. It seems to him, the man muses, taking a sharp left at the junction, that Freud’s greatness lies not in his ideas but in his endurance. In his ability to shake the earth.

The voice of the tinny car radio offers a shaky chorus. _There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun. And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God I know I'm one._ The man in the blue van hums along, his voice being so terrible he doesn’t want to dishonour the song with it. He smiles inadvertently at the sound of the familiar guitar, casting his mind back to fields yellow with dry grass, littered with plastic cups of cider. Hippies clad in nothing but woollen blankets, nodding long-haired heads to the magic coming from the stage. The Beatles were overrated. To him, The Animals will always be the true sound of the 60s. Them, and Joan Baez.

He takes a right down a small country road, lined on either side by thick, dark-green hedgerows. The track is damp brown earth, the kind scuffed endlessly by horse hooves and tractor wheels. There is an endless number of such tracks in this part of England, roads leading to private plots owned by people with too much land and money, whose lives rotate around horse-shows and fox-hunting. The man in the blue van feels a needle of irritation at the thought. He has never understood the pointlessness of hunting, the needlessness of death. The waste of it. Waste should never come of suffering.

At long last the house comes visible over the tops of the hedges. It is big, as the man knew it would be, and country manor in style. The man parks the car in the driveway and climbs out. He checks his reflection in the window, straightens the lapel of his dusty blue overalls, pulls down the peak of his cap. Fixes on a modest, affable, vaguely stupid expression. Once satisfied he is suitably dressed, he strolls up to the door and rings the bell.

He waits. A few moments later there is a scuffle on the other side and at last the door is opened by a stout, matronly looking woman, probably in her late thirties, and holding a crying baby. At first she just blinks at him, as if surprised to see an actual human being on the other side. The man smiles at her.

“Afternoon, missus. Here about the boiler?”

“Oh,” says the lady, still blinking and looking very distracted. “Yes. Come on in.”

The man tilts his cap, closing the door behind him. Inside the house is warm, suffocatingly so. Evidence of the problem he (well, not _he_ but someone) had been called to fix. Behind the tasteful décor and expensive furnishings there is a distinct smell of old milk, vomit and an even more permeating and distasteful odour; the markings of the infant.

“I have to admit, I’d completely forgotten you were coming,” the woman calls from some way down the hall. “My husband usually deals with things like this.”

“No problem at all miss,” the man says, following the sound of her voice. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full plenty.”

“Understatement of the century,” the woman _(Dora,_ the man reminds himself) grumbles, placing the baby securely in a high chair before opening the door to the boiler room. “Here we are. It’s an old piece of equipment but it’s been working fine until this week…the house has been a sauna for days.”

The man bends low, appearing to examine the boiler knowledgeably. In actual fact, he has absolutely not a hide or hair to make sense of these contraptions. Whenever there’s a problem with his central heating his solution is to add or subtract another layer. Old fashioned it might be, but if everybody thought the same way it would be much better for the environment.

“Would you like a cup of tea while you’re at it?” Dora asks. “Or a coffee?”

“Tea would be dandy,” the man replies gratefully, placing a completely undecipherable toolkit on the floor in front of him.

Dora turns towards the kitchen to set about preparing the kettle, mugs, tea-bags. Meanwhile the man gets silently to his feet. He reaches into the pockets of his overalls, withdrawing a pair of leather gloves which he slips silently onto his fingers. Then, rummaging about in the toolbox, he pulls out a flannel which he dabs with clear liquid. From her place in the highchair, the toddler watches with wide, blinking eyes. The man raises a single finger to his lips.

“How many sugars?” Dora asks, her back still turned.

“None,” the man replies. “It rots the teeth.”

The woman turns around sharply, dropping the mug in her shock to find him so close to her. It falls onto the kitchen floor, smashing instantly to pieces. Her eyes are wide as the saucer, still balancing on the counter. Before she can scream, the man lifts the flannel and smothers it in her face. Her eyes go glassy and unfocused before the lids drop completely and she crumples in his arms.

By the time he has her stowed securely in the boot of the van, the baby has stopped crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just a soul whose intentions are good...oh lord please don't let me be misunderstood...
> 
> if there is anything you DO misunderstand, feel free to drop me a comment below or hit me up on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/). Or you know, if you just want to say hi. that would also be nice.
> 
> next chapter up in a fortnight!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry sorry sorry exams revision excuses sorry sorry
> 
> Warning for minor drug use in this chapter. and by minor drug use, I mean a minor taking drugs and not someone indulging on some paracetamol.

The next few days are largely passed with Patroclus living in perpetual fear of Achilles calling him at some inopportune time. Since the first call at work Patroclus has been on edge, showing a jealousy over his phone that he knows is starting to freak people out. Briseis has called him out on it more than once and Patroclus senses her growing suspicion, to the extent that he is now actively trying to encourage her thinking it’s explicit fanart he’s trying to hide. This resort may come across as somewhat extreme, but honestly Patroclus isn’t sure what the consequences would be if the office found out he was on less than professional terms with a client. True, it would hardly be the first time communications had been via a private number, and he strongly doubts he’s important enough for their (not) relationship to be classified as a conflict of interest. Still, he’d rather not take the risk in finding out.

Fortunately, his fears prove to be pretty much unfounded. Achilles _does_ ring him up, once, in the middle of a lecture and Patroclus finds himself leaving the hall to answer, face burning and mumbling apologies only to discover that Achilles had just called to ask him what “intrepid” meant. Furious, Patroclus had answered him bluntly before hanging up; still he has neither blocked nor deleted Achilles’ number. This is less out of a desire to receive asinine inquiries which could be answered by a look in a dictionary or a google and more because, despite their obvious flippancy, Achilles’ words had stuck with him. If something serious ever _did_ happen, and Patroclus wasn’t there to pick up, he knows he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. After this one occasion however Achilles doesn’t call again, and Patroclus spends a quiet week relatively free of the Nereidas.

The same cannot be said however for his college life. Ever since their escapade on the M1 Dee-Dee has been telling anyone who will listen the details of the crime scene. Unfortunately, there turns out to be a lot of people who _will_ listen and as Dee-Dee is apparently incapable of not dragging Patroclus’ name everywhere in her wake, people have also been coming up to him to verify her story. Patroclus is pretty sure that he’s met more people over the course of the last five days than he has since he first started, due to the sheer number of people catching him in the corridor and greeting him with “You’re Dee-Dee Levy’s friend, right?” words which are, in themselves, reason enough for intense irritation.

Patroclus is also pretty annoyed that people only seem to care that he exists when he happens to be the witness of horrific tragedy. As Dee-Dee had quite rightly pointed out, Patroclus is a misanthrope and really doesn’t feel particularly inclined to make bosom friends with entitled law students; still it does jar a _little_ that most people only know his name in connection with brutal homicide. Particularly when most of these people have never said anything more to him beyond “You’re Asian. Would you care to sign this petition for a canteen menu more accessible to ethnic minority students?” Now, however, he has been forced to engage in small talk with people he has only ever known very vaguely by name. Such is the case one afternoon; Patroclus is fishing out post from his pigeon hole when the sound of someone yelling “Yo, Patroclus!” from down the corridor has him nearly tipping all his letters onto the floor.

Patroclus turns to see Bacci (or, the artist more formally known as Dionys) sauntering towards him. He watches them approach while trying not to look too suspicious. While Bacci is an omnipresent figure on campus, this is actually the closest contact they’ve ever had. Patroclus didn’t know they’d even known his name.

Bacci stops in front of him, sticks their hands in the pockets of their tracksuit. “How’s it going man?”

“Can’t complain,” Patroclus replies warily, giving them the onceover. Bacci’s face; narrow, olive-skinned and effeminate is taken up largely by a pair of very expensive Ray-Ban sunglasses, behind which their dark, kohl-lined eyes can just be made out beneath the fan of thick eyelashes. Their hair is long, black and straight; pushed back in a sort of 70s mullet thing, completely at odds with the rest of their outfit which, besides the tracksuit bottoms, includes a white vest, gold chain, Adidas jacket and bright red lipstick, as well as an abundance of piercings. Up close, in all their Mick Jagger sports-gear glory, Patroclus is even less sure what to make of them.

“Dee-Dee told me about the messy shit you saw along the M1 last week,” Bacci says. “That’s some booky shit, man. Fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Patroclus answers heavily, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “It was, indeed, fucked up.”

“Like, stealing someone’s brain?” Bacci continues because oh no, apparently this conversation isn’t over. “Who does that? That’s like, fucking Hammer Horror level Non Sense, you get me? Like in the…fuck, the what’s it. _Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell._ You ever seen that?”

 “Can’t say that I have,” says Patroclus, who does not like gore.

“10 out of 10, bruv. Exceeds all expectations. But hey man, this brain-finessing dude reminds me of that. And this is what, numero tres now? Fucking mess, bro. The feds still won’t call him a serial killer but like, how many does it take, man? Are they waiting for quatro or something?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Patroclus shrugs, pretty sure that out of the two of them Bacci is the more likely to be aware of the police’s movements.

Bacci shakes their head. “Fucking mess,” they say again. “Hey, and you know what? This guy I know, his aunt, Dora, she’s been missing for like, a week.”

Patroclus’ eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Yeah bro,” Bacci nods. “He has like, pretty serious anxiety problems so he came to pick up off me, you know, and he was pretty beat about it. I was like ‘don’t worry man, she’ll turn up’ but I was pretty fucked myself so I probably told him to look under the carpet or something. Anyway, I know that shit can be pretty traumatising so if you ever wanna talk or smoke a doob hit me up, ok? Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thanks,” says Patroclus, amused but oddly touched. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Don’t sweat it bro,” Bacci says, shooting very slow finger guns at him. “You’re calm. Hey man, are you coming to this party thing in a couple of weeks? Should be lit.”

“Oh, no,” Patroclus replies, already shaking his head. “I don’t think I can make it.”

Bacci’s face falls dramatically. Patroclus can’t remember the last time he’s seen someone look so legitimately put out. “Seriously dude?” they demand, crestfallen. “That’s a fucking Greek tragedy. Why not?”

“Uh…I have work and…stuff…” Patroclus mumbles, taken aback both by the apparent sincerity of Bacci’s disappointment and the fact that his usual excuses seem even more of a shallow falsehood than usual.

From behind their oversized glasses, Patroclus sees Bacci’s pierced eyebrows wriggle non-comprehendingly. Patroclus’ sense of discomfort at letting this person he barely even knows down intensifies as Bacci shakes their head assertively, pursing their crimson lips together with decision.

“Nah bro,” says Bacci emphatically. “That’s not gonna fly. Working on a Saturday night is a fucking blasphemy against the gods. You’d do me _insult,_ man. Come on bruv, do me a sound one and come to the party, ok? We need people like you to make it cool.”

“Lol,” says Patroclus, and as if he just verbally enunciated a messaging acronym what is even happening right now. “Ok.”

"So you'll come? You promise?"

"Sure."

"You promise?"

"...Yeah?"

"You promise?"

"I mean...yeah."

"That's three times you promised," Bacci points at him solemnly before clapping him jovially on the shoulder. The finger guns rise up again, shooting ecstatically at Patroclus’ chest. “Safe. I’ll see you there. You want me to set aside a little something for you? I’m working on something new, calling it ‘blue epiphany’. It’ll blow your shit, dude, I swear down.”

“Thanks, but I’m good,” Patroclus shakes his head before Bacci can persuade him into anything else. “I don’t really do drugs.”

Instead of smirking, or rolling their eyes as Dee-Dee would have done, Bacci just nods. “That’s cool,” they say. “Respect. I gotta go class man but I’ll catch you later. You better make it to that party, alright? Imma hold you to it son, don’t let me down.”

“I won’t,” says Patroclus but Bacci has already gone, vanishing off down the corridor as quickly as they’d first appeared.

The moment they disappear, Patroclus finds himself left with a major sense of disorientation. He blinks, as if trying to dispel a sudden mist that had crept before his eyes and fogged his senses but his brain still feels very fuzzy. He looks down at his hands and realises he’s holding a bunch of letters; it takes him nearly a minute to work out what he’s doing with them.

After sorting through his post and stowing the envelopes back into his pigeonhole, his phone rings. He hesitates, glancing at the screen warily but upon seeing that it’s only Briseis raises it to his ear.

“Hey dude, what’s up?” comes her voice through what sounds like a mouthful of crisps.

“Something really weird just happened,” Patroclus answers, frowning down the length of the corridor where Bacci had once been. “I think I just agreed to go to a party.”

“The one for your course?”

“Yeah.”

“Be serious.”

“I know,” says Patroclus. “I’m pretty disturbed about it too.”

Patroclus waits patiently as the other end of the line is taking up with the rustling of the crisp packet, filling Patroclus’ ear with static before Briseis replies concernedly, “Are you feeling ok?”

“I don’t actually know,” Patroclus confesses, mediating over his sudden wooziness. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Ok, well, let me rephrase. Are you ok enough to come with me to the Nereida drug test?”

And Patroclus is sure that something must have slowed his senses because after not having heard that name in a week it takes him a few seconds to remember who the fuck that is. “That’s today?”

“Uh yeah,” Breiseis confirms, tossing another crisp into her mouth and crunching loudly.

“Why do you need me?”

“I don’t. Only the Local Authority decided to combine it with a social worker visit and I kind of really don’t wanna be alone with Juno and Thetis for an afternoon?”

Patroclus bites his lip. He can imagine the scenario; Juno, walking contemptuously round the property, speaking to Briseis like she’s twelve years old and Thetis as if she’s five. Briseis, arms across her chest and snarling like a cat. Thetis, throwing things. He gets why she might feel the need to request some back up. Even so, “It’s my day off, man.”

“I _know,_ but come on. Do you have anything better to do?”

“Well, that’s insulting. For all you know I could have a hot date lined up. _Several_ hot dates.”

“Sure thing Adonis. But if you come with me we’ll go pub after and I’ll reimburse you in vodka cranberry. How’s that?”

That, Patroclus hates to admit, is actually very tempting.

“Fine,” he relates, trying to sound more reluctant than he actually is for honour reasons. “When is it?”

“Like,” a pause, presumably while Briseis checks her phone. “Fifteen minutes?”

Patroclus swears. “Brisies, I’m hardly going to trek all the way to Dalham in _fifteen minutes.”_

“I _know_ that, Rulesmith. Which is why I’m parked right outside your college.”

After approximately half a minute’s deliberation, Patroclus heads out into the carpark. Briseis is indeed there leaning against Hugo, her beloved Toyota Yaris, its black hood glittering like the shell of an enormous beetle in the watery afternoon sun. Briseis is dressed for work, ie, her staple outfit of black blouse, black blazer, black skirt and black heels, however, being by far the most professional-looking presence on campus, in this environment she could have stepped straight out of a Bond movie and seems to be attracting quite a lot of attention. Not least because she is also sporting a rather fetching pair of sunglasses which, what with Bacci’s recent appearance, has Patroclus wondering if he didn’t miss a memo.

Patroclus greets her with a sceptically raised eyebrow. “It’s not even sunny.”

“One does not need sunglasses on a cloudy day, yet it is on a cloudy day that one must look ones flyest,” Briseis recites without hesitation.

“Andy Samberg?”

“Ezra Koenig.”

He follows her into the car, brushing away the empty packet of Doritos left on his seat and clicking on his safety belt as Briseis backs out of the park. Several boys, catching a look at her from where they stand smoking away their tuition fees, offer wolf-whistles and catcalls; she ignores them with a lazy flick of her middle finger. The depressing truth of being engaged in their line of work means that Briseis is rather more than accustomed to the unwanted comment by now, and it’s either keep a cool head in response to sexist bullshit or stop wearing lipstick to work.

They exit the carpark and Patroclus winds the window down, partly for the health benefits of fresh air and partly because it stinks of fucking Cool Ranch. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?” he asks Briseis once they set off. “Apart from hijacking me, obviously.”

“Court hearing,” Briseis replies, pulling a face. “No offence, but your town is…pretty rank.”

“None taken,” Patroclus acquiesces. “It’s not as bad as Dalham though, come on.”

“True,” Briseis accepts. “But I think it’s more concentrated than Dalham because its smaller. I went into Lidl and the guy at the till had one tooth.”

“Was it wooden?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh yeah, that’s Craig.”

Briseis makes a weird snort-laugh that causes Hugo to waver a little bit as she turns onto the motorway. Patroclus clutches the sides of his seat discreetly. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Briseis’ driving, per se. He just doesn’t know anyone else who had to take their test a grand total of nine times before they passed. Also, and as with absolutely everything else in her life, Briseis has a compulsive need to multi-task and while one hand sits lightly on the wheel the other often takes to wandering around like a dispossessed spider, searching for makeup or chewing gum or coffee or her phone. At the moment, it combs briskly through the thick dark curls of Briseis’ hair, her black eyes flickering up to the rear-view mirror as she checks her reflection.

“So, this party,” she says, brushing a few stubborn locks back from her forehead. “How come you’re going now?”

“I was persuaded,” Patroclus replies grimly. “By the campus drug dealer.”

Briseis barks a laugh. “Was he that attractive?” she asks.

“They,” Patroclus corrects her. “I think. And it wasn’t even that, just like, they were really friendly and when I said I wasn’t going it was like I’d told them I had a terminal illness or something…I don’t know, I just felt really bad. Like I didn’t want to let them down, even though I’ve literally never spoken to them before.”

“Well that’s cute,” Briseis says diplomatically. “Maybe this is the fledgling beginnings of a new, sociable Patroclus who likes to go to pretentious law parties and make new friends.”

“Or maybe Bacci smokes so much weed there was some left in their clothing and I got passively high,” Patroclus suggests as a viable alternative.

In response Briseis lets out a wild hoot of laughter, presumably at the name ‘Bacci’, and Patroclus tenses as the car swerves again.

“Can I come as your plus one?” she asks when the vehicle is once again safely under control.

Patroclus pulls a sceptical face. “Dude, you’re like, twenty-five.”

_“So?”_

“So it’s a freshers’ party.”

“And what?” Briseis demands. “My birthday’s not until June. Anyway, twenty-five is not _old._ I am still hip and cool. I am still down with the kids.”

“You pronounce ‘meme’ like ‘crème’.”

“That’s because it originates from the _French!_ I won’t have this Dawkinsian nonsense about it coming from _mimeme,_ I don’t want to give that smug white man the credit-”

“Yeah man, keep going on about the etymology of internet slang and you’ll fit right in.”

Briseis responds with a cat’s glare at him from out the corner of the mirror and descends into a low muttered grumble about ageism. Patroclus largely blocks her out. They have just left the motorway, turning off towards a pair of traffic lights instead of taking the exit into the town centre. Patroclus has never been in the outskirts of the city before, never having had reason and being entirely devoid of desire. While the Dalham town centre often has the grimy yet honest romance of an ill-stricken Victorian city, there is absolutely nothing romantic about its suburbs. Patroclus takes in the small, shabby-looking buildings with their peeling paint and boarded windows, the dirty pavements interrupted with overflowing skips. There are a few children playing in the street, kicking around the tattered remains of a football. They scurry out the way as Briseis and Patroclus approach, staring at the car as it drives past.

“Nice place,” Patroclus comments as they pass a grubby-looking pub, outside which a man and woman appear to be having a shouted conversation.

“Mmm,” responds Briseis, tight-lipped.

She takes a right down a street which a lopsided sign announces as Phthia Av and parks the car. Patroclus gets out, scanning the length of the road for the unmistakable signs of poverty. The houses are short, squat and terraced; each one boasting a single door and two windows. On the other side of the road one dilapidated home seems to be patched up entirely from cardboard, one sheet of which bears the words “IMAGRINTS OUT!!” in bold marker pen. Briseis lifts her sunglasses onto her head, the better to squint at it.

“Ima Grint’s out,” she reads. “Good for Ima.”

“Do you think they knew we were coming?” Patroclus smirks, gesturing to a BNP poster pinned to a lamppost.

Briseis follows Patroclus’ gaze and raises an eyebrow. “It’s like the start of a joke,” she says wryly. “A Turk and a Sri Lankan walk into a right-wing government forsaken hellhole…”

Patroclus snickers as Briseis strolls up to Number 20, outside of which a smart maroon Peugeot is parked, too obviously new to belong to anyone on the street. She rings the doorbell and waits, Patroclus standing at a safe distance behind her. A few moments later there is a scuffling sound and the door opens, revealing a very harried looking Thetis.

“Hi Thetis,” Briseis greets her cheerfully. “How are you?”

“You’re late,” Thetis replies. Her eyes are wide and fitful, and, running a hand through her lank, black hair Patroclus sees that the nails have all but been bitten off.

“Oh…yes, sorry about that,” says Briseis smoothly, although Patroclus’ phone shows that they can’t have been by any more than three minutes. “Er, traffic. Is Juno here?”

Instead of responding Thetis nods curtly, a muscle leaping in her sharp jaw. She steps aside, allowing Briseis and Patroclus to walk in ahead of her. Instantly, Patroclus’ senses are assaulted by the clinical sting of cleaning materials, so sharp that his eyes begin to water. Blinking them back he casts an interested eye over the Nereida property as he follows behind Briseis. The space inside is small and cramped, a short corridor allowing a single staircase for the upper floor and the decoration is plain, white walls and cream carpet giving way to grey linoleum as they reach the kitchen. The counters and appliances are cheap; Patroclus notices that several handles are missing and some of the surfaces appear to be peeling away, however, everything is spotlessly clean.

Juno is sitting at the kitchen table, her plump, ringed fingers encircling a mug depicting an Irish shamrock. Upon Briseis’ entrance she fixes on a poisonous smile, tapping at the rim of her cup with purple talons.

“Briseis,” she purrs. “So glad you managed to make the journey. Would you like anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“I’m sure Thetis is on it,” replies Briseis tersely as Thetis bustles around the kitchen, opening cupboards and washing mugs. “Did you just arrive?”

“More or less,” answers Juno, glancing at her watch. “I got here… _seven_ minutes ago actually. But don’t worry, we haven’t started without you. Acesco are in the living room, they’re just setting up.”

“Right,” says Briseis distractedly. “Where’s Achilles?”

Patroclus darts a look at Thetis who, if possible, looks even more anxious at the question. Juno however claps her hands together as if Briseis had just made a remarkable point.

“Well that certainly seems to be the question, doesn’t it?” she says, perching her elbow on the table inquisitively. “Where _is_ Achilles?”

Thetis swallows, the movement traceable against her thin throat. “I told you,” she replies through tight lips. “He’s out with friends.”

“Yes, you did say,” Juno affirms. “Only, and you’ll forgive me, ‘out’ isn’t _particularly_ specific, is it?”

Instead of replying, Thetis merely purses her lips tighter, turning to boil the kettle. Juno leans back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest in a self-satisfied way. Patroclus is hyperaware of the blood heating in his veins as he watches her. There is no way any mother could possibly know where her teenage son might be every second of every day. Most would be completely happy to let them roam the local area without fear of being dubbed irresponsible as a result. Yet Thetis’ hand trembles as she spoons coffee into a mugs and Juno looks on with a smile on her face.

The kettle is boiled. Thetis takes the two mugs and hands them each to Briseis and Patroclus. Briseis mutters a grateful thanks while Patroclus reaches surreptitiously for the sugar. There is a thick silence, tense and awkward while they sip their coffees and Juno stirs the cold dregs of her tea with a teaspoon. Patroclus watches Thetis out of the corner of his eye. She is not looking at anyone but staring into some far-off space, her eyes still very wide as if about to scream. Patroclus wrenches his gaze away and, almost involuntarily, checks his phone for messages. There is nothing.

“Shall we make a start, then?” asks Briseis, once the silence has surpassed unbearable.

Juno nods briskly, smoothing her skirt as she gets to her feet. Thetis follows the movement like a nervous dog catching an unwelcome scent, almost knocking over a glass on the counter. Her eyes flicker apprehensively to Briseis, who smiles in encouragement.

“All they’re going to do is cut off a tiny bit of hair near the scalp,” she says soothingly. “And they also might ask you to wee in a cup. Nothing invasive.”

Even so, Thetis doesn’t look particularly reassured as she trails behind Juno. Upon entering the living room where the drug testing services are waiting, Juno stands aside, stopping Patroclus before he can walk in after her.

“I’m going to start my visitation now, there’s really no need for me to be here,” she says, nodding towards the living room. “Would you be a love and carry my bag for me while I go round, it’s hard for me to make notes while I’m carrying it.”

“No problem,” says Patroclus, trying not to wince as the enormous crocodile-skin handbag is dropped automatically into his arms.

The second Juno has availed herself of her burden, she whips out a notebook and ballpoint and begins to scribble furtively, eyes narrowed in concentration. Patroclus can hear her muttering as she retraces her steps into the kitchen, in a way that suggests she’s not particularly bothered about being overheard.

 _“Strong smell of cigarettes,”_ she says darkly, nostrils flaring. _“Clings to the furniture. Clearly has been smoking inside the property.”_

 _Seriously?_ Patroclus thinks to himself, who can barely detect anything under the suffocating fog of Demestos.

Juno yanks opens the fridge door and sniffs disdainfully inside, shaking her head condemningly as she closes it again. She then proceeds to open various cupboards and drawers with much the same reaction, frowning at the contents as if there is something singularly denouncing in cornflakes and marmite. When finished conducting her investigation of supplies, Juno clicks her pen and turns in the direction of the stairs (Patroclus notices with some ingrained scandalisation without taking her shoes off, then again, this is a white person house and the same requirements do not apply). Following Juno up the stairs, Patroclus notices a few framed pictures of Thetis and Achilles accompanied by a smiling old couple, against a green valley background. He assumes they must be grandparents and wonders, if the worst comes to the worse, whether Achilles will have to be shipped off to Ireland for placement.

Juno opens the bathroom door and peers inside. It is barely a square inch bigger than a storage cupboard, consisting of a shower, toilet and sink all crammed very close to each other. Like the rest of the house it is spotlessly clean. In lieu of a bathmat, a woollen towel lies in front of the shower which Juno picks up between her thumb and forefinger, inspecting it suspiciously.

“Health and safety hazard,” she informs Patroclus over her shoulder. “Someone could easily trip and break their neck on this.”

She drops it back onto the tiles before Patroclus can voice that there probably isn’t enough space to trip, before rummaging around in the toiletry cupboard. Various pills and medication she sets on the toilet seat; Patroclus sees that most consist of treatment for severe migraines. Finding nothing else of interest Juno sweeps along the landing, opening a door which leads to Thetis’ bedroom.

Patroclus inhales sharply. Unlike the rest of the house, which is clean and tidy to an almost obsessive degree, Thetis’ room looks like a cross between a war-ravaged shelter and a landfill site. Clothes and underwear lay strewn over the floor in scattered heaps, along with ancient objects and appliances, the majority of which look to be broken. Old cushions leak stuffing next to caved in washing baskets with snapped-off handles and an exploded microwave perches on a chest of drawers. Torn envelopes lay in haphazard stacks, shredded contents scattered like the feathers of a ravaged bird. The smell of cigarettes is strong here, presumably emanating from the unwashed clothing that drapes over every item of furniture.

Juno picks her way gingerly around the room, lifting the edge of the duvet still clinging to the bed to reveal an old, stained mattress. Patroclus watches his step as he treads a cautious route, wary of stepping on something alive; meanwhile Juno has already moved to looking through Thetis’ drawers, her hands quick and efficient in their search. Finding nothing she switches to the wardrobe, plunging headfirst into the heart of darkness. There is a brief pause while she pokes about in the black, then suddenly, and with an exclamatory “HA!” she emerges, clutching a large glass bong.

“Let’s see her worm her way out of _that,”_ she mutters to herself, scribbling fanatically in her notebook. “And there’s more where that came from no doubt…best check the bins on the way out…”

She snaps the notebook shut, looking up at Patroclus with fiendish glee. “One more room,” she says and nods at him to continue.

The last room is Achilles’. Patroclus feels his heart clench in his chest as he surveys it, as if someone were squeezing it tightly in their fist. It does not particularly stand out from any other teenage boy’s room, apart from the Spider-Man duvet which Patroclus would guess at belonging to a much younger person. Although less of a tip than Thetis’ room, the floor is scattered with clothes and comic books; as Juno continues her investigation, Patroclus absently picks up an old _Green Lantern_ and thumbs through it, smiling at the familiar issue.

Unearthing nothing but a carton of cigarettes and a few cans of Red Stripe, Juno calls it a day. They head back downstairs where Briseis and Thetis are waiting, the latter looking possibly more traumatised than she before the test. Briseis raises her eyebrows questioningly at Patroclus and he lifts his shoulders in response. The house was by no means the worst of their clients’; Patroclus remembers Briseis coming in to work one day and showering immediately, after being at one home which seemed to think dirty nappies were of good use as decoration. However, he doesn’t know how much of Thetis’ apparent hoarding, as well as the bong discovery, could damage her.

“Shall we discuss the visit now?” Briseis asks Juno.

“Over another cup of tea I think,” Juno replies, directing the request to Thetis.

“There’s no more milk,” Thetis answers shortly. “You used the last of it. I can get some, the shop’s about two minutes down the road-”

“-I’ll get it,” Patroclus volunteers quickly, unwilling to be present at the unveiling of Juno’s report. “I don’t mind.”

The offer is taken up without dispute and Patroclus listens closely as Thetis gives him directions to the nearest off licence. Patroclus nods his understanding and leaves as hastily as he can, just as Juno moves to flip open her notebook.

The fresh air comes as no small relief as Patroclus starts along the street in the direction Thetis had pointed out to him. A glance at the BNP leaflet still flapping against the lamppost triggers a brief flicker of nervousness, however the streets are quiet, the only other person out being a little old lady walking a terrier. Despite the anxieties that accompany walking around in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, Patroclus relaxes and walks on mostly lost in his own thoughts, until he reaches the crossing at the end of the second street.

The red and blue off licence sits directly opposite a small roundabout, around which only a couple of cars roll lazily. Patroclus crosses, paying only the barest attention to his surroundings. There are a group of boys hanging outside the shop; a brief glance shows them to be older than he is or around the same age, dressed in the kind of clothing Bacci probably paid a lot more for. Patroclus thinks a couple of them might have said something to him as he passes but he ignores them, catching a strong smell of weed and beer as he flits by.

Patroclus buys the milk quickly, with his own money because honestly it’s the least he can do and he’s fairly sure that his experience-based, part-time job pays better than whatever Thetis currently has to live on. He leaves the off-licence and is already starting back down the road when a familiar voice catches him off guard.

“Patroclus!”

Patroclus turns to see Achilles, detaching himself from the group of young hoodlums and jogging towards him. Instantly surprise stirs in him, no doubt registering on his face as, upon catching up with him Achilles smiles coyly, almost sheepishly. He is wearing tracksuit bottoms and a baggy grey hoodie, the hood of which he has drawn over his head, helping to explain why Patroclus didn’t recognise him.

“I thought that was you,” Achilles breathes out. His cheeks are faintly pink.

“Why aren’t you in school?” is the first thing Patroclus blurts out and instantly regrets it. _God,_ I _sound like the social worker,_ he thinks irritably to himself.

“I went to school,” Achilles answers defensively. “It’s five now.”

Patroclus nods vaguely, his attention distracted by Achilles’ friends who appear to be laughing about something. His first thought is that, with their shaved heads and scuffed knuckles, they look like the exact kind of people he was worried about meeting in this unfamiliar territory. His second is that, as he had noticed before, they also look to be a lot older than Achilles.

Achilles is holding a beer can in one hand. The smell of weed has followed them, and Patroclus realises he brought it with him.

“So this is homework, huh?” Patroclus gestures sarcastically to the beer.

Achilles frowns. “What are you, my mum?” he asks. Patroclus notices that his eyes are rather red and unfocused.

“No, but she is wondering where you are,” Patroclus replies, consciously aware of several pairs of eyes watching him curiously. “Maybe you should text her, or something.”

“I would, if I thought she cared,” Achilles shrugs. “It’s chill man, it’s fine. Hey,” he breaks off suddenly, frown deepening. “How did the thing go? You know…the thing?”

Unsure whether he’s referring to the drug test or Juno’s visitation, Patroclus opts for an ambiguous answer. “Ok I think,” he says and then, involuntarily, he smiles. “Was checking out your comic book collection. You have pretty good taste.”

Achilles’ eyes widen, followed by the corners of his mouth until his face splits in a grin. “Dude,” he says. “First you’re taking me on dates, the next minute you’re in my _room?_ Maybe we should slow things down a little.”

“Maybe,” Patroclus replies, grinning despite himself. “Or maybe you ought to start growing a little bit into your ego.”

Achilles giggles. “That’s why I wear big shoes,” he says. “See?”

He lifts his feet from the pavement, proudly displaying a brand new pair of glittering Air Max trainers. Patroclus examines them with admiration, letting out a low whistle. “Those are some very fresh creps,” he remarks wryly. “Where did you get them?”

The sheepish look intensifies. “Uh,” says Achilles scratching the back of his head evasively. “They were a present?”

Patroclus fixes him with an unimpressed look of sincerest disbelief. “Is that a euphemism for shop-lifting?”

“What does ‘euphemism’ mean?”

“When you say one thing but you mean something else.”

“Oh,” Achilles shakes his head, the movement slow and deliberate in his current state. “No. Someone gave them to me. And I guess I did pay for them, in a way.”

The way he says it, Patroclus doesn’t know why, but it turns his insides into heavy, cold lead.

Achilles changes the subject. “Is that June woman still in my house?”

“Juno,” Patroclus corrects him and nods. “Yes.”

Achilles pulls a face. Behind him, his friends are starting to get impatient, calling his name and wolf-whistling. He tosses a careless glance at them over his shoulder before looking back at Patroclus.

“Come join us,” he says hopefully.

Patroclus laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Achilles whines plaintively, tugging at Patroclus’ sleeve. “Come on, man. It’ll be cool. They’re fun, I promise.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Patroclus replies, detaching himself from Achilles’ clinging grip. “But I’ve got to get back. Be careful, stay…stay safe.”

He cringes as the words come out but Achilles doesn’t seem to have noticed, fixing his face in a scowl with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Whatever,” he says and drains his can before squaring his shoulders and returning to the group.

Patroclus tells himself not to look back as he sets off down the road and actually he manages it until he is safely out of view. By the time his self-control breaks he can only just make out Achilles, a little grey blob next to the off-licence besides much taller, darker shadows which, at the distance seem to be closing in around him. Patroclus shakes the thought away with self-annoyance. Achilles has been fine for a long time before Patroclus became even the slightest part of his life. Just because Patroclus feels some degree of responsibility for him doesn’t give him the right to cast judgement over his acquaintances and stress over his slightest move. It’s not his job, for one thing.

Upon approaching the house, Patroclus notices a new car parked just behind Juno’s Peugeot and beside it a man leans, smoking unselfconsciously. He is tall and thickset, with wide muscular shoulders and a strong torso ending with a slight paunch, like an ex-rugby player gone to seed. His hair is brown, cut close to the scalp and this, combined with a heavy jaw and steely eyes gives him a military bearing. As Patroclus draws nearer the man’s gaze switches to him, his eyes roving up and down as if drinking him in. Patroclus spares him a curious glance before knocking at Thetis’ door.

The moment the door opens and Briseis ushers him inside, Patroclus casts another quick look behind him. The man has already driven away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter's quite short, will make it up in the next one. Thanks again for all of you lovely people commenting and the ones of you hitting me up on tumblr - you know who you are.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains physical abuse and some underage weirdness. Nothing graphic, or even too sexual. still. you have been warned.

As promised, Briseis takes him to the pub. It is not a very nice pub, being a dirty, ramshackle building a couple of blocks from the Nereida’s street, however, it was the only one they could find which didn’t have a British flag hung up on the outside. Patroclus exits the car, stepping over a scabby, dust-coloured mutt curled up in front of the door and prepares himself for the welcome he’ll receive inside.

He isn’t disappointed. Upon entering every head in the room turns in their direction. They are mostly male, “bull-necks” as his father calls them, beer-bellied and red-faced, as if perpetually sunburnt. Patroclus counts about three women; hard-faced, heavily make-upped, and looking about sixty although they’re probably no older than thirty-five. Predictably, most of the eyes go to Briseis and a few of them narrow at the brazen, cheerful entrance of someone who, in her sleek heels and fancy suit, so obviously doesn’t belong here.

Briseis ignores it, smiling cheerily at the hostile faces, and clicks her fingers for the barman. “One vodka cranberry please,” she orders. “And one white wine.”

“You know you have to drive home, right?” Patroclus reminds her, eyeing the rather generous wine glass.

“I’m just having the one,” Briseis counters. “It’s Friday, let me live.”

“I’ll let you live, if you let me,” Patroclus mutters, flashing his mind back to several traumatic lifts Briseis had given him, despite her assurance that she was sober.

Briseis pays for the drinks and they find a table furthest away from the group which looks most likely to break into football chants. It’s a secretive dark corner, ideal for seditious meetings and confidential work discussions. The only downside is it’s underneath a fake stag-head. Patroclus’ mood actually plummets at the sight of its plastic horns, casting a shadow over the ring stained table.

“Look at this,” he gestures gloomily. “Look at it.”

Briseis raises an eyebrow. “Are your veggie sensibilities offended?”

“A _fake_ stag-head,” Patroclus affirms. “I would actually prefer it to be real. But a _fake_ one? God. Is there anything sadder in this breathing world than that? Someone probably found it in a car boot sale and thought they’d try appealing to the local gentry.”

Briseis titters, raising her white wine to her lips. “Internalised classism maybe,” she suggests. “To be honest, we’re lucky this place isn’t National Front, considering the look of some of its regulars.”

Patroclus inclines his head. “Touché.” He takes a sip of his drink. Sweet. Fruity. The vodka barely discernible. Just the way he likes it. He takes another.

“So guess who I ran into while Juno was giving her report,” he says.

“Danny Devito.”

“What? No. Why was that even the first name that came into your head?”

“I spend kind of a lot of time pondering the existence of Danny Devito.”

“Ok. Well no. It was the CIN.”

CIN – Child in Need. Strictly speaking, they are not supposed to talk about their clients outside of work, but she and Patroclus have developed a code to make such gossip sessions possible. Briseis raises her eyebrows in surprise before pulling an acceding face.

“That actually makes a lot more sense,” she accepts. “What was he up to? Kidnap and robbery? A spot of pyromania?”

“Nah, he was jchillin outside the off-licence,” says Patroclus. “Smoking weed with a bunch of mates. Who all looked _way_ older than him, by the way.”

Briseis purses her lips, shaking her head in an exasperated sort of way. “That boy is far too charming and pretty for his own good,” she says grimly. “He’s going to get himself into trouble.”

“If he hasn’t already,” mutters Patroclus.

Briseis frowns. “What do you mean?”             

Patroclus hesitates. Achilles had trusted him, and he’s reluctant to betray his confidence, as casually as it had come. Still, he knows that he ought to tell Briseis everything, and that she in turn will be under obligation to relate it to the Local Authority. He doesn’t want to get him or his mother in trouble. _Then again,_ he reminds himself. _Perhaps he’s already in trouble._

In the end, duty wins out. “He showed me his new shoes,” he whispers. “Very expensive ones. When I asked if he stole them, he said they were a gift and that he did pay for them, and I quote ‘in a way’.”

As suspected, Briseis looks immediately horrified. She puts down her glass in order to place two hands on the edge of the table and exhales slowly, steadying herself. “Fuck,” she says at last, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “You know we have to pass this on, right?”

Patroclus nods gloomily. “Yeah I know,” he says. “But there’s something else. As I was heading back there was this dude jchillin outside the house. Big guy, square jaw, crew cut. When he saw me he got in the car and drove away. I don’t know, I guess he was waiting for Thetis or something.”

Briseis’ frown intensifies. “Sounds like it could be one of her boyfriends,” she answers grimly. “Or clients. Whatever she’s calling them. Ah shit. This’ll be fun to raise at the next CPC.”

Patroclus nods dully. They both take long sips of their drinks, meditating pessimistically on their own dark thoughts, the guy with the crew cut lurking at the corner of Patroclus’. Although he hadn’t exactly stood out from your average Dalham-city-Joe, he had not liked the look of those eyes, iron-grey and cold. They were eyes that had made Patroclus shiver as they calculated him.

“Question,” says Patroclus suddenly, setting down his glass. “Is our first allegiance to the client or the Local Authority? I mean like,” he amends quickly before Briseis can give him a shitty sarcastic summary on the definition of a lawyer. “Obviously we work for the client. But if the client’s done something really bad, or something really shit has happened but the client doesn’t want the LA to know about it, what do we do?”

Briseis nods understandingly. “This is when your ethics comes in,” she replies. “A lot of people see law as a black and white matter but in fact, it’s pretty much the greyest of all careers. Basically, even though you’re acting for the client and representing their wishes, you still have a moral commitment to tell the truth. So if, for example, you’re client has killed someone and you know _for a fact_ they did it, then as a lawyer you should persuade them to plead guilty. If they won’t, you should step down and say ‘I’m not taking this case’. If your client is getting beaten up by their boyfriend but they don’t want you to tell the LA, you still have to tell them. If they fire you, so be it. Obviously you’ll get lawyers who are perfectly willing to sweep it all under the rug and whose first commitments are to winning the case. Those lawyers are _dicks,_ Patroclus, and if they got found out they could lose their job and/or risk charges for corruption.”

Patroclus nods. “Got it,” he says. “We’re talking like, Otis Seuss, right?”

Briseis rolls her eyes. _“Obviously_ we’re talking Otis Seuss,” she answers bitterly. “Come on, the man started in Crime and he drives a Ferrari? That guy is a hired gun if ever I’ve seen one.”

“I actually kinda like him,” Patroclus confesses with a quite smile. He has only ever met the infamous barrister once at Court but he had been easily swung by his affable charm, his easy charisma and his quick wit. Patroclus had very much enjoyed watching him tease and provoke Agamemnon until the latter was red in the face. Most of the time however he just complained how badly he wanted to go home.

Briseis’ eyes are narrowed in judgement. “Oh my god,” she sighs, exasperated. “You are _so gay.”_

Patroclus flicks a peanut at her.

Briseis buys him another drink and the conversation moves away from work. Briseis starts badgering him again to let him come to the college party, threatening to redact his invite to her qualification party, once she passes her training as a solicitor. Patroclus points out that in that case, she will have no one to help her fend off the amorous attentions of Mene Atreus, at which point she promptly begins retching.

“Can you imagine if he brought his mug?” she cackles. “To drink prosecco.”

Patroclus shakes his head. “Shit bro,” he says. “I take back what I said about the fake stag. That mug is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Period.”

“If someone drew a smiley face on the train, maybe that would make it less sad?”

“You and I know for a _fact_ that would only make it worse.”

Briseis laughs so hard that she has to excuse herself for the toilet. Patroclus shakes his head amusedly, finishing off the rest of his drink. He imagines Briseis on the phone to him at her party, desperately apologising for revoking his invite and begging him to save her while Mene lurks by the snack table, nibbling seductively at the cheese straws. It’s almost worth refusing not to come.

His phone rings. Patroclus pulls it from his back pocket and glances at the screen, swimming slightly in his inebriation. It’s Achilles. Patroclus rolls his eyes at what he assumes is another attempt to force Patroclus into hanging out with him and almost ignores it. However something, possibly the alcohol working its way merrily into his system, causes him to pick up.

“What’s up?” he asks, preparing for a slurred, herb-infused response on the other end.

The voice that comes through is so anxious and panicky that Achilles nearly doesn’t recognise it. “Hey, Patroclus?” Achilles babbles, the two words running together to form one. “I’m really sorry but could you come pick me up?”

Patroclus blinks, his brain taking a longer time than usual to process the words. “What?” he says when he finally reaches a level of comprehension. “Did something happen? Achilles, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” comes the terse answer, although his voice shakes unconvincingly. “I just can’t really go back home right now and I don’t know who else to…to call.”

There’s a break in the last sentence and Patroclus recognises the quiver of held-back tears. Immediately Patroclus starts to panic, imagining the worst explanations for what could have happened. He forces himself to calm down as he replies to Achilles. “I’m with Briseis,” he answers. “I can’t drive but she can. Tell me where you are and we’ll pick you up.”

On the other end of the phone he hears Achilles sigh of frustration, his quiet “fuck” and for a moment Patroclus fears he’s about to hang up. When he answers, he sounds resigned. “I’m at a bus stop,” he says reluctantly. “You like, go to the end of my road and turn right.”

Patroclus nods earnestly, despite the fact that Achilles can’t see it. “Ok,” he says. “Hang tight. Wait there, don’t move. We’ll be like, five minutes.”

Achilles hangs up. Patroclus drops his phone from his ear and stares dumbly at it until Briseis gets back.

“What’s up?” she asks, catching the look on his face.

Patroclus stands, pushing his chair out of the way. “Can you drive?” he asks her. Briseis nods, perplexed. “We have to go. I just got a call from Achilles. He’s in trouble and needs us to pick him up.”

Briseis’ eyes widen in comprehension. “Shit,” she hisses, snatching her bag and swinging it onto her shoulder without hesitancy.

They practically sprint out the pub, yanking open Hugo’s doors and leaping inside. Briseis nearly backs into a lamppost in her haste to reverse onto the road and soon she’s flying off down the street. Patroclus keeps his eyes peeled for a flash of blond hair, blood in his ears and pounding heart threatening the walls of his ribcage. Briseis too is glancing anxiously out the window and even now Patroclus wants to issue a warning to keep her eyes on the road.

“There!” Patroclus exclaims as the bus stop comes into view.

Briseis parks the car and they climb out. Achilles is standing next to the bus shelter, grey hoody drawn over his head. His face sags with considerable relief at the sight of Patroclus and Briseis, although he hitches on a guarded expression almost immediately.

“Achilles,” Patroclus breathes upon approaching. “What happened?” He frowns, realising that Achilles is clutching his arm. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” answers Achilles, although his pained expression says otherwise.

“Let me see,” orders Briseis and before Achilles can protest steps forward to examine his arm. Patroclus gasps, seeing the odd angle sticking out even as Achilles yelps, jerking out of her grip.

“Let go, I’m fine,” he snaps at her, though there are tears in his eyes.

“You need to go to the hospital,” says Briseis curtly. “Get in.”

Achilles shakes his head. “I don’t, I’m fine,” he repeats. “Honestly. I just need somewhere to stay-”

 “-If someone doesn’t look you over right now, they’ll say that your mum did this to you,” Briseis tells him bluntly. “And when they find out that she didn’t even bother taking you to the doctors’ afterwards, it’ll only get worse. They’ll be clamouring to take you away.”

Achilles hesitates. His eyes flicker to Patroclus who holds his gaze, too dumb with shock to corroborate the truth of Briseis’ words. Finally, he grits his teeth and nods.

Briseis exhales shortly through her nose and opens the car door to allow Achilles to clamber clumsily inside, still clutching his arm. Patroclus gets in next to Briseis and immediately sets on Google Mapping the nearest Walk-in Centre. There’s one seven minutes away and Patroclus reads out the directions to Briseis, trying to block out the sound of Achilles whimpering very quietly in the backseat every time the car turns a corner.

Much like the rest of the buildings, the Walk-in is short, squat and utilitarian. Briseis parks the car in the first available spot and tries to help Achilles out, only he brushes her away impatiently, gritting his teeth against the pain. As Briseis takes the lead towards reception, Patroclus falls into step with him.

 _“Was_ it your mother?” he asks in a hushed voice.

Achilles shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. Patroclus feels a twinge of frustration, mixed with anxiety. “Achilles…you have to tell the truth about this,” he impresses upon him hurriedly. “You can’t lie just to protect her.”

Achilles doesn’t reply.

The receptionist assures them that a doctor will be with them shortly and directs them towards the waiting room. Achilles sits down and immediately starts jilting his leg up and down frantically, as if charged with an electric current. Briseis goes off to make a call, leaving him and Patroclus alone. He can hear her on the other side of the room to Juno, speaking in a low, harried voice. Patroclus decides to try his luck again.

“Achilles, please talk to me,” he says quietly. “You just need to tell me what happened.”

“How can I?” Achilles whispers back, infuriated. “When anything I say could be used against me by my _own lawyers?”_

“We’re not gonna use anything against you,” he tries to reassure him. “But if your mum did this then you need to tell us, so that we can adapt to the situation quickly-”

“-It wasn’t my mum, ok?” Achilles answers through gritted teeth. “Don’t ask me anything else.”

For a moment, Patroclus can do nothing but blink. Before he can press Achilles further however Briseis comes back, red-faced and hair frizzing with tension.

“Juno’s coming in twenty,” she says.

“Oh for _fuck’s sake,”_ Achilles whines bitterly. “What exactly is the _point_ of having you guys on my team if you’re just gonna give it to them?”

Briseis is saved from thinking up a suitable response by the arrival of a man in a white coat, who calls Achilles’ name. All three of them stand up and follow the doctor along the hall to the hospital room. Once inside the doctor, an olive-skinned Sicilian by the name of Asclepi, asks Achilles to sit on the blue-papered hospital bed and to take off his hoody. Achilles looks reluctant.

“Can’t you just roll up my sleeve?” he asks sullenly.

“I need to see if there are any other areas of injury,” Dr Asclepi explains.

“There aren’t.”

“Do as he says, Achilles,” says Patroclus, touching him lightly on the wrist.

As if stirred by the touch, although still exceedingly reluctant, Achilles gingerly clambers out of his hoody. Once it falls away, revealing the entirety of his face, Patroclus hisses between his teeth and Briseis utters a little shriek. An enormous bruise has blossomed over the left side of Achilles’ face, violet petals previously hidden by the hood but now visible even through the curtain of thick blond hair. Patroclus feels his stomach drop as he stares at it, unable to look away.

Dr Asclepi raises an eyebrow. “Care to tell me what happened?”

“I fell off my skateboard,” Achilles says instantly.

The doctor sighs, sets his jaw grimly. “This is going to take a little longer than expected,” he states.

Patroclus watches nervously while the doctor conducts a number of tests, first checking Achilles for concussion before examining his arm. In answer to every question the doctor and nurses ask of him Achilles parrots the same response; “I fell off my skateboard, hit my head and landed funny.” After several scans and X-rays, the doctor confirms a sprain. He sets Achilles’ arm in a splint and sling, tells him to keep it elevated and gives him some pills and a prescription for the pain. For the bruise there’s not much he can do but offer an ice pack, as well as some choice words for Briseis.

“I find it highly unlikely that this was an un-accidental injury,” he tells her in hushed tones while Achilles draws dicks on his new splint in felt-tip pen. “For one thing, the bruise and the sprained arm are on opposite sides.”

“You think for sure that someone did this to him?” Briseis asks.

Dr Asclepi spreads his palms. “Impossible to say anything for definite,” he replies cautiously. “It could be that he fell in such a way as to impact both sides of his body, but as I say it is unlikely. His arm appears to have been wrenched with considerable force, rather than to have simply met with the pavement as he has claimed.”

Briseis’ phone buzzes. She glances at it and purses her lips. “Juno’s here,” she mutters to Patroclus before turning back to the doctor. “Would you mind stepping out with me? The social worker is likely to have some more questions for you.”

Dr Asclepi nods, following Briseis, Patroclus and Achilles down the corridor and into the waiting room. Sure enough, Juno has perched herself on one of the flimsy chairs, rummaging for lipstick in her enormous crocodile-skin bag. At the sight of the doctor she gets at once to her feet, hurrying forward to shake his hand.

“I came as soon as I could,” she gabbles, looking convincingly distressed. “Achilles, let me see you. Oh, you poor little mite. I’ve heard you’ve been very brave.”

“Yeah, because it takes so much bravery to sit still in a hospital chair for three hours,” Achilles rolls his eyes. “Nobody will ever forget _my_ name.”

Juno’s lip curls, eyes narrowing in evident and mutual dislike. “Well,” she says haughtily. “It’s good to see you’ve still got your sense of humour at least. You and I need to have a little chat. Tell me what happened.”

“I’ve already said,” Achilles replies impatiently. “I was skateboarding, I tried to do a trick and smashed my face against a railing. Then I fell off and hurt my arm. It’s not exactly a fucking epic tale.”

“Language,” says Juno idly. “I’m sorry to hear it, that sounds very painful. But tell me, if you only fell off your skateboard, then why don’t you want to go home?”

Patroclus draws in a sharp intake of breath, certain that this time, she’s got him. Juno crosses her arms over her ample chest, raising an eyebrow challengingly at Achilles, the ghost of a triumphant smirk haunting her smug face. Achilles freezes. Patroclus can practically see the gears working in his mind, trying to cook up a convincing lie.

“My mum told me to wear a helmet,” he says at last. “I didn’t listen. If I go home she’ll be angry with me.”

 _You cunning little bastard,_ Patroclus thinks as Juno looks very much as though she’s been slapped in the face by something singularly disgusting. He knows that he shouldn’t feel like celebrating right now, still the satisfaction on Achilles’ face, the challenge that says _Your move_ makes him want to whoop and cheer.

“Well,” snaps Juno savagely. “You certainly are a clever one, aren’t you.”

Achilles beams.

Juno and the doctor step out to talk. Achilles waits till she disappears and the moment she’s gone turns to Briseis. “What’s going to happen now?” Achilles asks her. “They’re not going to make me go home, are they?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Briseis replies calmly. “And certainly not if they think it’s an unsafe environment. Which they don’t, and which it very clearly isn’t. The normal practice would be to find you a placement to spend the night but I doubt we’ll find one such short notice. I’ll ask Juno if you can stay at mine.”

“What about after?” Achilles persists. “With my mum and everything?”

Briseis crooks an eyebrow at him. “Well that depends on you, doesn’t it?” she replies. “Whether accidental or non-accidental, you’ve suffered an injury. There’ll be an urgent Child Protection Conference called for as soon as possible and there we’ll discuss the immediate risks. After that, I imagine the Local Authority will want to issue proceedings.”

“What does that mean?” Achilles glances at Patroclus, voice charged with anxiety.

Briseis takes a breath before answering gently: “It means they’ll want to go to Court.”

Patroclus watches as Achilles’ eyes widen, the blood draining out of his face. His shoulders slump as he starts to shake his head, murmuring through pale lips: “No,” he mutters. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

He collapses into one of the hospital chairs, back hunched over, beating his fists against his forehead and snatching at his hair. Patroclus rushes to his side in an attempt to comfort him but Achilles pushes him off.

“This is all my fault,” he says, voice choked with tears. “I should never have called you…I should have just slept on the street… _fuck,_ this is all my fault-”

“-Stop it,” Briseis cuts him off harshly. “None of this is your fault. You did the exact right thing calling Patroclus. Now I promise you, we will do everything we can to help your mum against the LA. But you have to be honest with us. You have to tell the truth. We can’t fight a battle if we only have half the facts.”

Achilles doesn’t say anything, only drops his head into his hands.

About ten minutes later Juno re-emerges, notepad in hand and looking as though she’s been forced to swallow Demestos. Achilles does not look up and Juno ignores him, addressing her next words directly to Briseis.

“I’ve called the emergency foster placement,” she announces. “They’re absolutely full up.”

“I can take him for the night,” Briseis assures her. “It’s really no problem.”

Juno purses her lips, glancing Briseis up and down. “You’re not assessed,” she replies with the supercilious air of a college girl in an American film, rejecting someone from a sorority.

Briseis rolls her eyes. “Seriously?” she demands. “Come on, Juno. I’m quite obviously not a risk. It’s one night, the kid needs somewhere to stay. We can figure the rest out in the morning.”

Briseis holds Juno’s gaze while the social worker weighs to herself the practicality of the arrangement against her instinctive desire to be obstructive. Finally, she waves her plump, ringed hands in surrender. “Fine,” she relents. “Fine. I shall relay to my manager.”

“Patroclus stays too,” says Achilles suddenly, voice coming muffled from the gaps between his fingers.

Patroclus looks at him in surprise as Juno makes a conceding gesture. “What’s another broken regulation,” she says tartly. “On your heads be it. I, for one, am going home. I suspect I’ll be seeing you all very soon.”

She shakes hands with Briseis curtly, shoulders her enormous bag and leaves without a backwards glance. Briseis watches her go, her expression one of extreme distaste before shaking her head with exasperation and turning to the boys.

“It’s getting late,” she says. “We’d best be going too.”

Patroclus touches Achilles lightly on the shoulder. He releases a long shuddering breath, lifting his head slowly from his hands. There are tear tracks on his cheeks and he wipes them away with his uninjured arm as he gets uneasily to his feet. None of them speak as they leave the Walk-in Centre and the silence stretches as Briseis starts the car and they begin the journey back to hers. Patroclus sits in the back seat with Achilles. Dark has long fallen and the only light comes from the flash of the car lamps lighting the motorway. In the alternating flash of reds and blues, Achilles is still crying.

***

Briseis lives about five minutes from the Dalham city centre, in an area predominantly populated by students and recent graduates newly flushed from their first jobs. She parks Hugo outside the small, red-bricked townhouse, engaging in a brief battle with the door complete with muttered swearing before stepping aside to let them in.

Inside is light; all pastel furnishings and peach-coloured wallpaper. Briseis bustles around, switching on lights and checking the heating before hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Shoes off,” she throws over her shoulder at Achilles while Patroclus, who has also had the training of a non-Western upbringing, is already peeling off his trainers and placing them neatly on the cream carpet. “Are you guys hungry? I can make pasta.”

“Sounds great,” Patroclus answers for the both of them. After his outburst at the hospital, Achilles seems to have assumed a new state of emotional cool, glancing around at his surroundings with detached indifference. Patroclus gestures for him to follow him into the living room. There is a thick wool blanket laying on the sofa and Achilles immediately throws it around himself, curling his knees up beneath him like a cat.

The TV remote is laying on the armrest. Patroclus picks it up. “Do you want the TV?” he asks.

Achilles holds out his good arm and Patroclus hands him the remote. He flicks to Cartoon Network and settles back into the blankets, eyes fixed straight ahead and blinking at the screen. Patroclus decides to leave him some space.

“I’m gonna see if Bri needs any help,” he says. “Call me if you need anything.”

Achilles doesn’t reply. Patroclus breathes out heavily and heads to the kitchen.

Briseis already has a saucepan sizzling with aubergine and is flurrying around the kitchen with some degree of agitation.

“I don’t have any white food,” she tells Patroclus with some distress. “All I found is some boil-in-a-bag pilaf and a jar of muhammara my mum brought me. And between you and me, I’m not sure how long that’s been in the fridge.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” says Patroclus, diligently sniffing the jar Briseis shoves under his nose. “He probably knows there’s more to life than spag bol. I’m sure he’s not a fussy eater.”

Briseis pulls a dubious face. “You know what kids are like.”

“He’s fifteen, not ten,” Patroclus reminds her.

Briseis shrugs. “Could have fooled me,” she mutters. “Do me a favour and take care of this aubergine while I make tea.”

Patroclus accepts the wooden spatula, shoving the vegetables around in the popping oil. He likes cooking; has spent countless evenings at Briseis’ making dinner together, swapping recipes and drinking wine before settling down under her blanket to watch _Don’t Tell the Bride._ His home life is okay when it’s just him and his mum and tense whenever his dad is around so Briseis’ has become a little bit of a safe-haven. He wishes he was here now under different circumstances.

Before long the pilaf and aubergines are ready. Briseis takes out three plates and dolls out generous helpings of muhammara, although Patroclus notices she puts Achilles’ on the side. Patroclus sets the tray with tea and helps her carry it into the kitchen, where Achilles is still laying coiled up on the couch watching cartoons.

“Was out of pasta,” Briseis tells Achilles apologetically, handing him his plate.

Achilles looks suspiciously at the food in his lap, brow curling in distrust. He takes a forkful and gives it a tentative sniff before putting it into his mouth. Apparently finding it not to possess arsenic, he takes another bite.

“Oh man, Fairly Odd Parents,” Patroclus exclaims through a mouthful of rice. “I fuckin’ love this show.”

Briseis looks sceptically at him. “Isn’t this a little bit before your time?”

Patroclus gawps at her, aghast. _“Excuse_ you,” he says indignantly. _“I_ was brought up by Cosmo and Wanda.”

Briseis glances at the screen, where Mr Turner is asserting his authority as a parent. “Actually, that makes perfect sense,” she concedes. “I feel like you learned a lot, at a very formative age, from Timmy Turner.”

“Brother, I will knock you out.”

“Case closed.”

 Achilles doesn’t speak during the exchange, however, he does make a noise which could be construed as one of amusement. Patroclus feels his spirits soar with hope.

They watch cartoons until the clock on Briseis’ wall reads midnight, by which time Achilles has long scraped his plate completely clean. When the last episode finishes, Briseis gets to her feet and starts gathering the plates.

“Time for bed,” she announces with enough firmness in her voice that it doesn’t even bear contradicting. “Patroclus, would you mind showing Achilles the spare room?”

Patroclus nods, registering with some resentment that this means he will be sleeping on the sofa. _Maybe next time you can be the one to get your arm nearly broken by your own parent,_ says a smarmy voice at the back of his head and he checks himself. He gestures to Achilles who wriggles reluctantly out of the blanket to follow Patroclus down the hall, into what he has rather become accustomed to thinking of as his room.

The spare room is cozy and light, like the rest of the house, and a little bigger than Achilles’ own. Patroclus remembers what Achilles had said earlier about Patroclus being in his room and thinks that maybe this makes them equal, although he doubts it’s an appropriate joke to make under the circumstances.

“Towels are here,” Patroclus opens the wardrobe to show him. “Bathroom is just down the hall.”

Achilles nods and without warning, starts to take off his shirt. Patroclus feels himself flush and is about to make his excuses, when he realises Achilles is having trouble getting out of his sleeve. He stops, looking at Patroclus pointedly.

The heat already starting to rise in his cheeks spreads to the back of his neck as Patroclus hurries to his side. Carefully, trying hard not to brush his injured arm, he helps Achilles out of his shirt. Laid bare, Patroclus sees the hard planes of muscle, the subtle lines beneath the thin skin that betray the mark of the athlete. His limbs are delicate and youthful, finely toned rather than heavy with a man’s bulk, although he lacks the usual puppy fat, the soft remnants of childhood that cling fast to adolescence. Instead, Patroclus sees where his ribs stick out, the lines of his pelvis sharp and striking, from not enough food at the right times. He feels his pulse quickening, and resents himself for it.

The shirt is laying on the bed but Achilles is still jean clad. Patroclus’ fingers shake as he undoes the button at the front of his waist band. Finally, it pops open and he suppresses a sigh of relief. “Do you need-?”

“-No,” Achilles shakes his head, yanking down his own zipper and managing to shimmy clumsily out of his jeans with one hand.

Patroclus straightens up, turning away sharply from the sight of Achilles in his boxers. “If you need anything else I’m just in the living room,” he says.

“Patroclus,” says Achilles.

Patroclus stops at the doorway. Achilles’ face peeks out from above the covers, the stark line of his collar-bone just visible against the mattress. “Thanks,” he whispers.

Patroclus feels a pain in his chest, like someone is trying to squeeze his heart very tightly inside a rubber tube. He suppresses the urge to rush at Achilles, to fold him protectively in his arms and keep him there forever. Instead he swallows against the sudden dryness of his throat in order to force out a response.

“I’m glad you called me,” he says. “You’re safe now. Try and get some rest.”

Achilles nods, turning his eyes towards the ceiling and blinking against the fresh-forming tears. Patroclus leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Briseis is waiting for him in the living room, a selection of blankets and pillows arranged in a makeshift bed on the sofa. She gestures to it apologetically. “You’re alright here, aren’t you?”

Patroclus waves dismissively. “Of course,” he says. “Thanks.”

Briseis nods. She looks away, biting her lip in a troubled sort of way and Patroclus waits patiently for whatever question he knows is coming. When it comes, however, it throws him.

“How did Achilles get your number?” she asks.

A multitude of responses flash across Patroclus’ brain as he thinks about how much shit Achilles could be in if he tells the truth. Finally, he settles on the one least likely to condemn both of them. “I gave it to him.”

Briseis’ eyebrows draw across her forehead. _“Why?”_

“Because…” Patroclus flounders. Unlike Achilles, he is not a natural liar and he’s pretty sure it shows. “I was worried about him. After he said that thing with the trainers…I don’t know, I thought that if anything did happen, I’d want there to be someone he could call. Someone he could trust. I don’t really know what I was thinking. It was on impulse.”

Briseis continues to frown at him, her dark eyes level and searching. Patroclus tries to hold her gaze but it’s difficult; already he can feel his palms pricking with sweat. Briseis is a lawyer, part of her job is to know when people aren’t telling the truth. However, the other part of her job is to know how much of the truth really matters. Her face relaxes, and so does Patroclus.

“Well whatever the reason,” she says. “I’m glad you did. Although I’d advise you not to make a habit of giving your personal number out to clients, and not to tell anyone else about it.”

“Of course,” Patroclus agrees hastily. “So…what should I do? Should I delete it?”

Briseis hesitates, thinking long and hard before replying. “No,” she says at last. “You’re right, it’s good that he has someone he trusts enough to let them know when he’s in danger. As long as you remember the boundaries and keep it to yourself.”

Patroclus nods, feeling as though, despite everything, a weight has just been lifted from his shoulders. Briseis sighs heavily, running a hand through her hair.

“Fuck,” she breathes out. “I’m going to bed. You know where everything is. Holler if there’s anything else.”

“Will do,” Patroclus assures her. “Night.”

Briseis wishes him goodnight and departs for her own bedroom. Patroclus switches out the light, shucking out of his clothes before clambering beneath the blankets on the couch. The red light from the television set blinks at him, a warning sign he doesn’t need. Patroclus closes his eyes against it, turns his mind to other things and waits for sleep to come.

***

Patroclus wakes up the next morning with the immediate fear that Achilles had ran away during the night. He walks into the kitchen however to find him there, fully dressed and sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of him, engaged in what appeared to be a very belligerent staring contest with Juno.

The social worker had found Achilles a temporary placement. The latter had flatly refused, claiming that his arm was much better and that he was ready to go home. After an outright argument with Juno, and much persuading from Briseis that it would help his mother more in the long term if he complied, Achilles finally gets into Juno’s car with very bad grace and allows himself to be driven to the foster home, where he will be living until the next Child Protection Conference.

The conference is called for the next week and, what with recent events, swiftly takes the status of a Pre-Proceedings meeting. Patroclus spends the next seven days in a state of severe anxiety, desperate to contact Achilles but constantly checking himself. Thetis had called several times, in varying stages of rage and distress, and it made Patroclus want to reach out. However, just because Briseis had approved him keeping Achilles’ number didn’t mean he should risk that privilege in sending idle texts to Achilles, just to see if he was okay. Even so, as each day that passes without word Patroclus feels himself feeling increasingly guilty, as though he is letting Achilles down by not being there.

The day of the PPM Patroclus is unable to go with Briseis, having been swamped by a tidal wave of work from the other solicitors. He rushes through it without really concentrating, looking up every five minutes to check the time. There are so many other cases that require his attention, Briseis alone has nearly thirty and both the Hadleys and Kauffmans are nearing the stage of Final Hearing, yet Patroclus finds himself completely unable to get the Nereidas off his mind.

“Letter for you dear,” Pam announces, sticking out a thick brown envelope through the door of the annex.

“Thanks,” says Patroclus, taking the envelope and glancing over the back. It’s from Acesco Drug Services. Feeling like these might be the results for Thetis, he places the envelope on Briseis’ desk with a sinking feeling.

An hour later the door to the annex opens again. Patroclus’ head darts up to see Briseis, her hair a tangled mess about her face and looking as though she has just done battle with several hungry wolves. Patroclus barely waits before she slams down her bag before plaguing her at once.

“What happened?” he demands. “Are they issuing proceedings?”

“What do you think?” Briseis’ grumbles, wrestling out her blazer and wiping the sweat from her forehead. _“Obviously_ they’re issuing proceedings.”

Despite the fact that they’d known it was coming, Patroclus still slumps in his chair. “Shit,” he swears heavily. “What are the charges?”

“Non-accidental injury,” Briseis answers automatically, collapsing onto her desk. “Achilles maintains that he fell of his skateboard and Thetis backs him up, but the Local Authority are adamant _someone_ did that to him. Whether it was Thetis or a third party, however, remains to be seen. Either way, if she did it it’s abuse and if she didn’t, she’ll still get done for failure to protect.”

“Fuuuck,” Patroclus groans, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “So what happens now?”

“Achilles will be appointed a Children’s Guardian,” Briseis tells him. “They’re looking for one now as we speak. After that, the real work begins. There’ll be a Fact-Finding Hearing; Dr Asclepi will be asked to file his report as to how he thinks the injuries were caused. The judge will decide whether they were non-accidental, and if they were who did it to him. And then they’ll be another hearing to decide whether or not Thetis can keep him.”

Patroclus imagines Thetis being told all this, in his mind’s eye can see her reaction over the possibility that Achilles might really be taken away from her. He doesn’t need to ask Briseis how she took it, the look on her face says it all. “What will happen to Achilles in the meantime?” he asks.

“Well, that’s what the first hearing’s for,” Briseis replies. “The LA are applying for an Interim Supervision Order, to place Achilles in foster care during the course of the proceedings. So our first task is to argue that Thetis is able enough to look after Achilles until the Final Hearing.”

“And is she?”

Briseis drops her head in her hands, dark curls springing out between her fingers. “I don’t knooow,” she whines. “It all depends on whether she was the one who hurt him or not.”

She rubs her eyes, dropping her hands from her face and catching sight of the envelope. “What’s this?” she asks.

“Letter from Acesco,” Patroclus replies. “Probably Thetis’ drug results.”

“Whoop-dee-doo,” mutters Briseis, reaching for the letter opener.

There is a loud tear as she slices off the top of the envelope, tipping the report out onto the desk. Patroclus holds his breath, watching her eyes whip from left to right as she scans swiftly through the text. For the next five minutes there is utter silence while Briseis reads the report, broken only by the flourish as she turns the page until finally, Patroclus can’t bear it any longer.

“So?” he asks. “What does it say? Is she positive?”

Briseis puts down the report, her mouth a tight, straight line. “Well,” she answers with grim resolution. “Let’s just say we have our work cut out for us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit goes to vanillaSunset for some classic comedy
> 
> 1000 apologies that this took so long. My last update was just before exam season and since then i've been swamped with revision, although admittedly I did get sidetracked by one or two Hamilton related projects (sorry!! it would take a stronger woman than me to resist) HOWEVER the good news is I am done!!!! I have finished first year!!! and i have all the time in the world to update on a consistent, regular basis.
> 
> I know this is absolutely no excuse for the wait, but i really hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you did please let me know, the same with any comments or queries you might have. I realise i was treading some pretty dangerous water with the undressing scene although i tried to handle it with subtlety so if that weirded you out at all please let me know and i'll do what I can to fix it up.
> 
> as always, feel free to come visit me [here](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/). love you all very much!


	7. Chapter 7

_I met her in a club down in old Soho,  
Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry-cola_

“C-O-L-A col…AH!” the man in the blue van sings along despite himself, succumbing to the price of his awful voice in favour of loudly drawing out the last, appreciative syllable. The Animals and Joan might be tied hand in hand over the 60s, but The Kinks definitely have a solid claim over the 70s. Even after a disappointing fallow in the earlier part of the decade, their revival blew most bands of the era out of the water. This song alone is enough to land them in the rock and roll hall of fame for all time.

It is a beautiful day, and the man drives with his window rolled down to let in gusts of warm summery air, far too summery for late February. Global warming probably, and not something he should be feeling particularly cheerful about. Still, it’s difficult to keep his spirits down when the sky is such a piercing shade of azure and there’s a free stretch down the M5 for at least as far as he can see. Put them together and the day is already starting to feel little less than a miracle.

 _Well I'm not dumb but I can't understand_  
Why she walk like a woman but talk like a man  
Oh my Lola 

_la-la-la-la Lola_

The man sings along, beating his palms rhythmically on the leather of the steering wheel. He remembers how as a teenager, his mother would always give him a sour look whenever he or his siblings would play this song and bark at him _“Turn that degenerate rubbish off.”_ Raised as a strict Presbyterian, she had little time for any sort of art or entertainment that didn’t abide by her severe moral code. The idea of g _irls will be boys and boys will be girls, it's a mixed up muddled up shook up world_ was enough to confine her to her room for days on end with a migraine.

He chuckles a little at the thought of his departed mother, rest her soul, having lived long enough to witness the world today. He imagines her staring with horror at social networking sites and television screens, dissolving into hysterics at the mention of the word “millennial”. Some of the things in today’s popular media would make the supposed date between Roy Davies and Candy Darling seem positively banal. The man meditates upon this as he drives past a crumbling old church, contemplating all the ways that religion, and the ignorant bigotries that so often attend it, has stood in the way of tolerance and progress. We could have come so far, not just as a society but as a species, were we not so beholden to the archaic customs and traditions that continuously hold us back. And all in the name of morality.

He had said as much to Dora as he’d inserted the tubes into her veins that would allow for the draining of her blood. He doubted the point had hit home, though. She had been screaming so much, in the end he’d had to sedate her. _Very_ disappointing results with that one. He had suspected there would be a little decrease in longevity, what with the new drugs, but a week? The effort it had taken to dispose of her body was hardly worth it. Still, her abilities had not been particularly powerful. No harm done.

The man draws up beside a modest, semi-detached house; completely ordinary were it not for the fact that the windows are boarded up. After waiting for the last strums of the guitar to fade out he turns off The Kinks, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror. The face staring back is quiet, studious and academic, affable eyes blinking behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Pulling on the doctor’s coat from the boot completes the disguise. In actual fact, he isn’t completely sure it _is_ an actual doctor’s coat. Not that it matters. In his experience, people will do just about anything you say if you are wearing a white coat at the time.

He knocks at the door and waits patiently after a woman’s voice calls back: “Just a minute!”, followed by a long scuffle interjected with plentiful swearing. It sounds as though there might be some sort of problem with the latch. After long last it comes free and the door swings open, revealing a red-faced, flustered young woman. Upon catching sight of him her face softens instantly, relief flooding into it.

“Oh thank God,” she breathes, bottom lip trembling. “I was so worried you wouldn’t come, that it was some kind of prank or scam-”

“Well, you never know,” he says smoothly, outstretching his hand to shake. “I might still be. Dr Silverstein. Pleased to finally meet you, Ms Golding.”

The woman glances nervously at the offered hand before lifting her own. Or rather, she lifts the oven mitt, strapped to her hand with several layers of duct tape. The man is suddenly very clear on what had taken so long with the door.

“Come in,” she says hastily, standing aside to let him pass. “Do you want anything? Some water, or a cup of tea?” She looks very desperately as though she wants him to say no.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he assures her and the look of relief intensifies. “Is there anyone else here?”

The woman shakes her head, leading him into the kitchen and gesturing for him to sit down at the table. “My daughter’s at school,” she replies, pulling out a chair for herself. “It’s just the two of us.”

The man takes the seat offered and sits down opposite her. Immediately she has begun shaking her leg, bouncing it up and down as if trying to detach a persistent insect and even through the thick material of the oven mitts, he can tell that she is fidgeting with her fingers.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here,” she says finally, her voice nearly cracking. “When I came across your website I was sure it had to be a hoax…and even if you did turn out to be genuine that there was no way you would take me seriously. But it’s just been _so hard,”_ she breaks off and there are tears in her eyes. “And I was so desperate. I just had to try.”

She wipes her eyes with the crook of her arm, taking a shuddering breath. The man fixes on his best, most calming smile and reaches across the table to clasp her oven mitt in his hand.

“I understand.” he says soothingly. “It’s alright now. I promise, you are in good hands. You have nothing at all to worry about.”

The woman nods shakily, exhaling in a way that betrays how badly she wants a cigarette. The man recognises it all too well in a fellow ex-smoker. If he still shared his mother’s faith, he would offer a prayer of thanks that he is no longer held captive by such pangs. He reaches down to lift his briefcase and sets it on the table in front of her. Her eyes are unwavering as she watches him enter the combination and pulls out a file.

“First some basic questions,” the man begins, settling a biro to the page. “Could I please have your full name?”

“Jane Golding,” the young woman replies nervously.

“Date of birth?”

“8th June, 1988.”

The questions continue until he has comprehensive details regarding her blood type, physical health and family and medical history. As he talks he can see her starting to relax, the familiarity of the examination making it seem no more unusual than a trip to the STD clinic, a doctor’s check-up. The man notes down everything she tells him in a quick, professional hand.

“Right, that’s the preliminaries out of the way,” he says cheerfully, keeping his tone light in order to keep her comfortable. “On to the important stuff. Now, am I right in thinking that you haven’t been to see anyone else in terms of your…condition?”

Jane nods. “When it first started happening,” she says. “I thought about going to the doctor’s. But I was terrified they’d file me down as some sort of freak or mutant and send me off for government testing or, you know, to live in a glass box or something…which wouldn’t be so bad,” she chokes a forced laugh which just borders on the hysterical. “Only there’d be no one to look after my daughter.”

 _Excellent,_ the man thinks satisfactorily to himself. “And when did it first start happening?”

Jane pauses for a long time before replying. “About four months ago,” she replies at last. “Small at first. I’d be sitting on the sofa, not doing anything, and suddenly I’d feel my palms growing really hot. It wouldn’t last long, just flare up and then cool down just as quickly. It started to happen more and more often until it got to the point where I’d push open a door and it would leave a mark. Cutlery would twist out of shape after I used it. And then the worst…when I tried to hug my daughter…” her voice trembles, tears springing back into her eyes. One spills and rolls down her cheek and she blinks ferociously. “I can’t control it anymore. I wear these all the time, just to be safe.”

The man jots it all down in wiry shorthand, loathe to miss a single detail. “So these instances, as you say, initially ‘flared up’ without warning before gradually increasing in frequency?” Jane nods. “Can you remember ever having experienced similar symptoms before? As a child, say?”

Jane frowns, appearing to consider hard before shaking her head. “No,” she answers finally. “Never.”

It takes enormous effort to keep the hand on his pen steady as excitement courses through him, electrifying the very tips of his nerves. He makes a final note before clicking on the lid of his pen and folding his hands together, looking sagely into Jane’s anxious face.

“Your condition is extremely unusual,” he tells her seriously but calmly, not wanting to scare her. “In every one of my previous cases the subject had begun to show signs and even, some of them, control of their abilities straight from childhood. It was largely down to this that I began to theorise the existence of some genetic mutation, however, with you it seems the causing allele has remained dormant up to this point. I shall have to conduct a number of experiments before we begin any closer study. First however, and do forgive me for having to ask,” he pauses, allowing her a chance to prepare herself for his next words. “A demonstration?”

Jane releases a long breath, closing her eyes briefly before nodding. The man helps her to tear off the bandages of duct tape, taking care not to brush contact with her skin as slowly he removes the oven mitts. Freed from their confines, her hands lie bared. There is nothing seemingly unusual about them, except they’re perhaps rather rosy, and sweaty from their prison. The man slides a plastic board beneath them and Jane sets her palms flat on the surface, her chest rising and falling quickly.

A ruby red glow begins to spread, flooding the shadow of her hands. The man stares, awestruck as her fingers flush pink to microwave red, the very tips burning yellow-white.

“Incredible,” he breathes as she lifts her palms, revealing a scorched star-shaped mark on the plastic board.

Jane fixes him with a hard gaze. During the process her face had betrayed no hint of pain, however, a similar look has come into her eye now. “It’s _shit_ ,” she tells him feelingly. “I hate it. I hurt my child because of it. I have to wear _fucking oven mitts,_ just so that I won’t again. I just want it gotten rid of!”

“Shh,” the man reaches to grasp her arm, tries to rub it soothingly as she hiccoughs. “I understand that right now this might feel more of a curse than a blessing. Many of my past patients have said the same, more times than I can count. But let me tell you now, you are not a freak, or a monster. This is no punishment. It is a _gift._ Of course it won’t seem that way at the moment but, with time perhaps, we shall see if you can’t control it. And if not, then I promise I shall do everything in my power to help treat you.”

He waits patiently as Jane takes one more shuddering breath, before finally closing her eyes and nodding.

The man tells her that he is going to have to perform a number of preliminary tests today and will return when he has analysed the results in about a week. From then on he suggests they meet twice a week, fitting around her schedule when she is off work and her daughter is at school. Jane agrees eagerly, asserting that appointments will not be a problem as she works part-time. As the man withdraws test-tubes, syringe and petri dishes from his brief-case, he suppresses the smirk that accommodates the thought flitting across his mind:

_This is almost too easy._

***

“Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo,” Briseis saunters in, carrying a hefty load of three full black binders and one empty one, which she promptly upturns onto Patroclus’ desk. “What time is it?”

“Show time,” Patroclus answers diligently. “Show time, show time.”

“I’m Bri Yilmaz in the place to be, I need you to fill one binder and photocopy three.”

“Well I’m Pat Mendis with enough on his shelf,” Patroclus looks up at her. “So you can wait in line or you can do it yourself.”

“Oui oui mon ami-”

“-Are we still doing this? Are you not done?”

“I’m done,” Briseis relents, swinging into her seat. “But seriously, I need you to do this for me.”

Patroclus sighs, leaning back in his seat and spreading his palms to more amply display the amount of work currently dominating his desk space. “So far Mene and two partners have come in with Section 25s and correspondence clips to paginate,” he tells her, flapping the form to show her. “And so far, I have been working on the first clip for…let me check,” he glances at the time on his computer screen. “Yep, three hours.”

 _“Yes,_ buuuuut,” Briseis drums her nails on the surface of one of the binders. “I need this now.”

Patroclus rolls her eyes, lifting the folder for inspection. She has, very generously, printed out the front and side sheets this time and the word _Nereida_ catches his eye before anything else. “Who’s this bundle for?”

“Children’s Guardian,” Briseis answers. “I’m seeing her today.”

“Oh, sick. Who is she?”

“Uhh…lady called Demi Van Meter,” she replies, flipping through her own files. “Never met her before. Don’t know much about her, except I think maybe she’s American?”

“Would have to be with a name like ‘Demi Van Meter’,” says Patroclus. “Or Dutch. Does she know about the drug test results?”

“She will do wheeeen,” Briseis raps her nails on the binder significantly.

Patroclus gives her a glaring look. “Fine,” he says, getting to his feet and snatching up the bundle. “Lucky for you, I like making copies.”

“I was counting on it,” says Briseis, who’s attention has already been stolen by her keyboard. “Also, not to hurry you or anything, but the courier is waiting outside.”

Patroclus picks up the bundles and takes himself of to the copy room, muttering insults darkly under his breath that Briseis either doesn’t hear or pretends not to.

Fortunately, the empty bundle doesn’t take too long to make up and the others are on the small side. There have been times when Patroclus has spent an entire day photocopying, sometimes even multiple. As much as he rather enjoys it, standing for hours on end in a room hotter than a sauna is enough to test anyone’s will to live. While waiting for the copier to run the pages through, Patroclus flips idly through the newly made _Nereida_ bundle. There isn’t much to it at this point, just an index, a chronology detailing the limited timeline they know so far, Juno and Dr Asclepi’s reports and the drug test results. Patroclus flips to the back of the bundle and re-reads the results grimly.

**The hair strand test results revealed evidence of frequent cannabis use, along with traces of heroin, methamphetamine and ketamine within the past six months. The urine test results revealed evidence of cannabis use within the past twenty-four hours.**

It isn’t _completely_ damning evidence. There’s always the doubtful possibility Thetis took her last hits of smack, meth and ket six months ago and is now strictly on the ganja.

Still. It’s pretty damning evidence.

Patroclus reads through the rest of the bundle, wincing over the doctor’s account of Achilles’ injuries. Both he and the Local Authority are pretty clear in their belief that the injuries were non-accidental, and that neither for a second found Achilles’ or Thetis’ story convincing. Patroclus knows that if the judge agrees with the doctor’s report, and Thetis is found to be lying in her statement, it will be all the worst for her. It’s up to him and Briseis to persuade their clients into telling the truth, before they go to Court.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and picking it up, sees that Achilles is calling him for the first time since he was temporarily placed in foster care. Patroclus answers immediately.

“Hey man, what’s up?” he asks.

“What’s _up?”_ Achilles’ voice comes snarling back through the receiver. “Are you shitting me?”

“I mean given the circumstances, you might wanna be a little more specific.”

“I can’t live in that place, Patroclus. Get me out of there.”

He assumes he’s referring to the foster placement. From what Patroclus has gathered from Briseis’ talks with Juno, Achilles has not exactly settled into his temporary home. On the first night, he went on a mission to destroy everything in his new bedroom while his ten-year old roommates cowered under the bed. It is somewhat debatable as to whether he or his foster-parents are more looking forward to seeing him go.

“Ok,” says Patroclus. “You do know that I can’t actually do that, right?”

“I’m serious,” Achilles tells him. “Not to be overly dramatic or anything, but I am not above burning things to the ground.”

“Right, well, _don’t_ do that,” Patroclus hisses, glancing distractedly around the copy room as if checking for bugs. “It’s a temporary placement, dude. Just stick it out till the Court hearing and you can go home. Well. If the judge decides its safe for you.”

He should probably not have added that stipulation. The way things are looking, the judge is pretty likely to rule that Thetis _did_ hurt Achilles, in which case an Interim Supervision Order will probably be made for Achilles to remain in foster care until the Final Hearing. Which will be in six months’ time. _Jesus Christ._

He thinks Achilles is probably thinking along the same lines as he takes a while to reply. “I’ll run away if he doesn’t,” he says bluntly.

“She,” Patroclus corrects him. “And wow, yeah, what a genius idea. Can’t see how that would possibly make things worse for you. In fact, maybe we should plant gunpowder under Dalham County Council while we’re at it.”

“Pipe bomb would be more effective.”

“I…no, don’t take that seriously, I am kidding, Jesus,” Patroclus breathes out quickly. Bugs in the copy room or not, he’s not about to risk continuing a phone conversation along these lines. “Just…stay in your placement, alright? Be patient. We’ll get you out of there, I promise.”

He cringes as he says it. Making promises on outcomes to the client. Top of the list on a lawyer’s no-nos. The silence that follows speaks of scepticism anyway and he flounders around for a change of subject.

“How are you holding up?” he goes for. “Have you spoken to your mum recently?”

“Yeah,” Achilles grumbles. “She’s pissed. Says the Local Authority are tryna make her into some kind of druggie. Told me the results were fixed.”

“Excellent news. I can see that going down a treat with the judge. Where are you, anyway? Don’t you have school?”

“Technically I’m in maths,” Achilles responds huffily. “I told the teacher I had to make a call. She let me cos, you know. I’m in _fucking foster care.”_

He feels the corner of his mouth quirk despite himself and has to hold back a laugh. “See? It’s not all bad. And you get to leave early today.”

“Yeah to meet this woman,” in his mind’s eye, he sees Achilles scrunching his nose in doubt. “What even is a Children’s Guardian? Does she _hadoken_ ninjas for me?”

This time, Patroclus can’t help himself. He laughs. “Not quite. A Children’s Guardian is appointed by the Court to represent the rights and interests of the child.”

“I thought that was _your_ job.”

Patroclus shakes his head. “Lawyer’s represent the client’s _wishes._ A Children’s Guardian is there to present the child’s views to some extent but at the end of the day, their report is based on what they think is actually best for them.”

“So another social worker, basically.”

“A social worker’s first allegiance is to the Local Authority. The Children’s Guardian acts independently from Social Services, and everyone else in the case. She’s here for you, and you alone.”

There’s another pause as Achilles allows this information to sink in. Patroclus, who is conscious of himself becoming steadily more attune to Achilles’ emotions, can tell he isn’t convinced. “Ok, well, whatever,” he says at last. “I’m not seeing her if you’re not there.”

Frustration courses through Patroclus, to the extent that he can scarcely keep it out of his voice. “Dude, that is _totally_ unreasonable-”

“-I don’t care. As far as I can tell, throughout this whole thing you’re the only one who seems to actually give a shit about me. Juno is a joke. Briseis is pretty cool, but at the end of the day she’s just doing her job. You’re the only one who doesn’t have a…a thing. What do you call it?”

“An agenda.”

“An agenda. Right. Anyway, out of all of them, you’re the only one I sort of trust. And I don’t even trust you _that much.”_

Patroclus feels his resistance deflate as he meditates over Achilles’ words. As loathe as he is to admit it, he understands where he’s coming from. Although he thinks his lukewarm trust for Patroclus is less down to his lack of an agenda and more out of an inherent suspicion of adults.

“This is my job too, you know,” he says at last.

“Yeah, but,” he knows Achilles rolls his eyes. “Come on.”

Rude.

“Okay _fine,”_ he relents. “I’ll try and come.”

“‘Excellent news’,” Achilles spouts in an affected uppity voice which…wait, is that supposed to be Patroclus? “See you at four.”

He hangs up before Patroclus has the chance to get another word in. Shaking his head despairingly, Patroclus redoubles his efforts with the photocopying. He’s going to have to step it up a gear, if he has any chance of getting all his work done by four o’clock. Luckily, upon returning to the annex it seems Briseis has taken pity on him and made a start on the Section 25. Grateful, Patroclus settles down opposite her to resume the tedious job of pagination.

“We have a new development,” he tells her, reaching for a pencil.

Briseis grunts without looking up from the form and Patroclus takes it as an inquiry.

“Achilles won’t meet the Children’s Guardian if I’m not there,” he continues. “He just called me now.”

Now Briseis does look up, dark eyebrows knotting together. Patroclus tries not to blush under the gaze. He had thought it best to be open and honest about his communications with Achilles, still, the probing nature of the look Briseis gives him is enough to make the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably.

“What reason did he give?” she asks.

“Says he only trusts me or something,” Patroclus mumbles with a shrug. “Or, well. He distrusts me the least at any rate.”

Briseis’ frown remains for a few seconds more before she also shrugs. “Well if that’s what he’s comfortable with,” she says. “Can’t see how it would hurt. Actually, maybe it’ll be a good thing to have you there. Might make him more open to negotiation.”

“He’s not a terrorist,” Patroclus reproves.

Briseis raises an eyebrow.

***

By the time three thirty comes around Patroclus has finished his work (a superhuman feat, if anyone was wondering, and more than worthy of a medal) and is entering into Briseis’ GPS the post code for Achilles’ school. It’s about five minutes away from his house; an ordinary state comprehensive encircled by glaring blue gates which, despite the bright newness of the paint, does give the building some semblance of a prison. Briseis and Patroclus step out of Hugo onto the flat plain of concrete that serves as a car park, aware of the eyes on them from the several students lounging against the vehicles, smoking cigarettes and wearing rumpled uniforms. Briseis ignores the usual jeers and catcalls as she makes a beeline for the patch of green serving somehow as both football field and athletics track, on the edge of which a woman is seated at a picnic table.

The woman is sat with her legs crossed, reading the bundle laying open on her lap which Patroclus recognises as the one he had put together that morning. So engrossed is she that she doesn’t notice them approach, looking up with a start and an embarrassed smile when Briseis calls her name.

“Oh, hi!” she says sunnily, closing the binder. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. These things really shouldn’t make for so compelling reading.”

Briseis laughs. “Too true,” she says. “If it weren’t a breach of confidentiality, we could have them marketed and sold as pulp fiction.”

“Better than Mills & Boon,” the woman agrees, offering her hand. “Demi.”

“Briseis,” says Briseis, taking it. “And this is my assistant, Patroclus.”

Patroclus shakes hands with Demi, taking in her appearance. She’s younger than he’d expected, somewhere between her late thirties and early forties with a face that somehow manages to be both girlish and mature at the same time. Her hair is long, curly and cornfield yellow, her eyes a cheerful summery blue.

She gestures for Briseis and Patroclus to take a seat at the picnic table, brushing aside her various scattered belongings so that they can sit down. “Sorry about the mess,” she apologises, shoving an empty sandwich box into her handbag. “I just got back from Court, didn’t have any time for lunch. I’ve only just finished reading up on the bundle, thank you for getting it to me so quickly.”

“Thank Patroclus,” says Briseis dutifully. “Photocopying legend. Did you manage to get a look at the drug test results?”

Rather than frowning or pursing her lips contemptuously as Juno would have done, Demi merely sighs. “I did,” she replies. “I suppose mother is denying?”

Briseis nods. “I’ve yet to speak to her properly,” she answers. “But so far she maintains she hasn’t touched drugs. I still need to take a statement.”

“Look out,” says Patroclus suddenly, which in hindsight is a pretty melodramatic reaction to the sight of Achilles, making his way towards them.

Upon first glance, it’s strange to see him in the smart blue shirt, grey trousers and blazer that make up his school uniform. On second however, Patroclus notices that Achilles has found a way to make even this conservative dress anarchic. His blazer sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and his tie hangs loosely around his neck, collar upturned like a Dracula who has discovered the Sex Pistols.

Catching sight of them he salutes, a gesture that exudes nearly as much irony as his appearance. “Wagwan bro,” he greets Patroclus before nodding at Briseis. “Hey, Bri.”

“Hey Achilles,” Briseis gestures. “This is Demi. She’s been appointed by Court to be your Guardian.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Demi.

Achilles frowns at her, his eyes taking in everything from her yellow hair to her floral blouse. “Are you American?” he asks distrustfully.

Demi smiles. “Guilty as charged.”

“Donald Trump’s a shit-stain.”

Demi nods sadly. “That he is.”

“You ought to get rid of your Electoral College, man. Replace it with real democracy. What’s even the point of that shit? I swear those Founder dudes just put it there to stop people like me, you know, poor people, from voting in like, tyrants and shit. But then you go ahead and elect Reagan and Trump and Nixon. That makes no sense. Instead of old dudes sitting around in wigs you’ve got the same bros, except they all wear suits and ties. Down with the capitalist dictatorship. Time for an overhaul. Vive la revolution.”

Demi’s blue eyes twinkle amusedly, despite looking rather taken aback. “Are you particularly interested in American politics, Achilles?”

Achilles shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “My teacher made us watch a documentary on citizenship in PSE, but I got bored and started reading Noam Chomsky.”

He takes a seat on the bench next to Patroclus and immediately starts shaking his leg. Patroclus can almost feel the intensity of the kinetic energy flowing through him, so much of it that at any moment he seems fit to combust. Demi, apparently recovered from having the expectations of her next care child completely dashed, slips the bundle into her bag and settles her hands in her lap.

“Ok wizz kid,” she says, crooking an eyebrow. “I wonder if you can explain to me the role of a Children’s Guardian as well as you can the US voting system?”

Achilles glances briefly at Patroclus, hesitating before replying. “You’re like,” he begins. “Sort of a mix between a lawyer and a social worker. You don’t work for the Local Authority and you’re here to say my views, but at the end you write a report based on what you think is best for me or something.”

Demi nods, impressed. “That’s pretty much it,” she confirms. “My job is to make sure that all the decisions that are made are in your best interest. My most important role is to keep you safe but also to check that the Local Authority’s plan really is what’s needed for you. I’m completely independent from social services, so it’s totally fine for you to tell me anything that’s on your mind during the course of the proceedings.”

“I want to go home,” Achilles says automatically. “Can you get me out of foster care?”

“Not single-handedly, no.”

Achilles shrugs. “Then I don’t really get what’s the point of you,” he snorts spitefully. “‘Children’s Guardian’. More like: ‘didn’t quite make it as a lawyer, might as well go back to babysitting’.”

Patroclus draws in a sharp breath, eyes flickering towards Demi. The crooked eyebrow has intensified but apart from that, she appears pretty much unfazed. “Fair point,” she concedes. “I can understand why you might not be enthusiastic about the idea of another disconnected adult, trying to make decisions for you. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of disappointment with similar workers in the past.”

“Please don’t try to get on my level,” Achilles winces, looking pained. “You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Instead of pursing her lips or narrowing her eyes, Demeter smiles. It’s not Juno’s condescending simper but something softer, amused, and makes no pretence at sympathy. “Duly noted,” she says. “Now, do you want to tell me what happened to your arm?”

Achilles blinks, momentarily taken aback by the directness of the question. His eyes flicker down to his arm, still in it sling. “I tried to do a trick on my skateboard,” he explains. “Smashed my face into a railing and landed on it weird.”

“And that’s the story you’re going with, is it?” Demi asks doubtfully. “Sure you don’t want to change it up a little before we go into Court?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“I do have to remind you that lying under oath does count as perjury.”

“‘Duly noted,’” sneers Achilles in a horrible Yankee drawl.

 _“And_ that if your mom is also found to be lying under oath, her chances of remaining your primary carer will be severely damaged. Remember Achilles, you will be in a room filled with experts. All of them will have seen injuries like these before, and be aware of the circumstances in which they are caused. Whose story do you think the judge is more likely to believe? A fifteen year old wunderkind’s or a qualified medical professional?”

She finishes and Achilles looks troubled, a thin crease appearing between the smooth, youthful skin of his brow. The silence stretches on for a long time. Patroclus watches Achilles, breath held, trying to gage his reaction. He appears to be thinking hard, weighing up all the probable options and outcomes in his mind as if trying to find the solution to a difficult chess problem. Patroclus can see the conflicting loyalties and emotions flitting across his face, evident in the tension of his jaw and the firm, straight line of his mouth, closed tight as if to prevent something from falling out.

“It wasn’t my mum,” he says at last.

Demi nods. “I believe you,” she replies. “Who was it?”

Achilles bites his lip and for a moment Patroclus is sure that’s the last they can hope to get out of him, but then he says: “She has a boyfriend.”

“I knew it,” Patroclus blurts out before he can stop himself. “Big guy, right? Short brown hair, looks like he was in the army?”

“He _was_ in the army,” Achilles rolls his eyes. “Like, once-upon-a-fucking-light year away. Now he just moves boxes for people and sits around the house being an arsehole.”

“What’s his name, Achilles?” Briseis asks urgently as Demi jots something down in her notepad. “Does he live with you? We need details.”

“His name’s Darren,” Achilles continues miserably. Patroclus gets the distinct feeling that now he’s gone so far in his betrayal, there is little sense in turning back. “Darren White. He’s…well, he’s _okay,_ I guess. Sometimes he can be pretty nice. But when he gets pissy he takes it out on my mum and I…y’know. Get in the way.”

“Is that what happened the other day?” Demi asks and Patroclus detects a hint of fury behind the carefully composed exterior. “Did Darren hurt your mum and you tried to stop him?”

Achilles shakes his head. “Er…no,” he begins hesitantly. “Darren kind of believes in…what do you call it? Capital punishment?”

“Corporeal punishment,” Briseis corrects him.

“That’s it. He thinks my mum’s too soft on me. That day I came back later than I said I would and he started giving me shit so I called him a fat bastard or something, I can’t remember and…yeah,” he peters out shamefacedly, fingers flitting subconsciously to the yellowing bruise on his jaw.

Patroclus glances at Briseis. Her face is almost white, her eyes steely. She looks just about ready to hit something herself. “Has he hurt you before?” she asks.

Achilles shuffles his feet nervously. “I mean,” he says. “I can be kind of shitty pretty often…look, I know what it sounds like and everything but really, he’s not a bad guy. I can be _really shitty,_ like, trust me. And as long as he’s taking it on me and not my mum it’s really not that deep.”

Briseis and Demi exchange a long look. Patroclus recognises it easily. It’s a look very commonly shared between those who have dedicated their lives to public service, a look that says: _the world is a crappy, twisted place and the only thing we can do to keep any more harm from coming to one of its victims will probably end up damaging him even further emotionally in the long term._ He knows Achilles see it too, eyes flitting anxiously between them as the consequences of what has told them begin to sink in.

“So this’ll help my mum, right?” he presses them. “If I tell the Court she didn’t do it then they can’t blame her for hurting me?”

“It will certainly help if we can prove that she didn’t inflict those injuries on you,” Briseis assures him. “But if the Court decides that she isn’t doing enough to protect you from harm, then they could still rule in favour of having you removed from her care. It all depends on what she decides to do from now on. A Restraining Order will probably be filed against Darren which will require him to keep a certain distance from the property. It’s up to your mum to make sure she maintains the Order, and prevents contact between you and any other risky individuals.”

“She’ll never speak against him,” Achilles complains. “Once he hurt her really badly, the police came and everything but she still wouldn’t let them press charges. She loves him too much.”

Briseis rubs her eyes tiredly, holding back whatever poisonous retort had leapt into her mouth. Demi takes over. “Then I’m afraid she’s going to have to make a choice,” she says kindly. “Your safety, or her relationship.”

Achilles chews his lip, frowns but says nothing. There’s a painful ache in the pit of Patroclus’ stomach; a yearning to reach out, to put his hand on Achilles’ shoulder, to hug him, anything. He settles for taking his hand where it lies on the bench between them and gives it a tight squeeze. Startled, Achilles looks up. He doesn’t quite smile, still, his expression is one of gratitude. He squeezes Patroclus’ hand back and lets go quickly.

“Ok,” says Briseis briskly, professional once again. “First port of call is to try and get Thetis to corroborate your story in her statement. Which I’m guessing will not be easy,” she checks with Achilles who nods glumly. “The hearing is in three days, so we have till then to work on her. Apart from that, I need to get started on sorting out a barrister.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Demi inquires mildly.

Briseis’ mouth goes as thin as Patroclus has ever seen it, and she avoids his gaze as she replies. “I have a few ideas,” she answers stiffly.

***

After a while Achilles, who has been shaking his knee with increasing vigour, starts to profess his boredom in more blatant ways (an example: trying to sneak his hand into Patroclus’ back pocket under the innocuous excuse that he wants his phone). Finally he and Patroclus, who could also do with stretching his legs, leave Briseis and Demi to discuss the details of the upcoming trial while they take a turn around the athletics field.

Both ‘athletics field’ and ‘football pitch’ are generous terms for the muddy stretch of grass, painted with a wavering square inside a larger circle, two beaten goalposts propped sadly at either end. Patroclus raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“What do you do for cricket?” he asks.

“We use the posts as wickets,” Achilles answers.

“Resourceful,” says Patroclus.

Achilles takes off his blazer and tie, hands them both to Patroclus who accepts them warily. He’s already wearing his running trainers. When Patroclus asked about them earlier, Achilles had replied somewhat ominously: “You never know when you might have to crack out a spontaneous 800 meters.”

“How many times are you going around?” he asks.

“Twice,” Achilles replies, leaning down to check his laces. “Man, you really know jack shit about sport, don’t you?”

“My school tried to make me run every Sport’s Day,” Patroclus reminisces wryly. “I guess they thought I had to be good at _something,_ and with a body like mine I was hardly about to try out for shotput. I used to pretend I had food poisoning and hide in the toilets every year.”

“Heroic,” comments Achilles. “Ok, well, all you have to do is stand there and press the time button. That’s not too much physical exertion for you, is it?”

Patroclus rolls his eyes. “I think I can hack it.”

Done with tying his shoes, Achilles straightens up and wanders over to the nearest goalpost. He gets into position, knees poised, fingertips pressed into the damp earth. A spring about to snap. Patroclus readies his phone and brings up the timer.

“Ready,” he calls loudly. “3…2…1… _go.”_

Achilles leaps up. The word has barely fallen from Patroclus’ mouth before he is sprinting round the track, feet flashing so fast they are little more than a blur of colour. Patroclus fumbles briefly with the timer; by the time he gets the button pressed Achilles has already left the goalposts far behind him, peeling round the circuit at breakneck speed as if he were sporting wings rather than his school uniform. Patroclus stares, his mouth hanging open in disbelief as Achilles whips past the second goalpost, not slowing but increasing in speed as he begins the second circuit.

Achilles doesn’t slow down until he finishes the second lap. Upon re-reaching the first set of posts he keeps running, until his momentum eventually peters out into a jog and finally a halt. He bends over, clasping his knees and breathing deeply, straightening up as Patroclus races to meet him.

“What the _fuck,”_ Patroclus gabbles, unable to comprehend what he has just seen. “What the actual _fuck!”_

“Time?” pants Achilles.

“1:47!” Patroclus just about screams. And yeah, ok, maybe he knows jack shit about sport _however,_ he does know a thing or two about physics and the numbers currently blinking across his screen should not have been possible.

Achilles, however, grimaces.

Staggered, both by the ridiculousness of the feat and his reaction to it, Patroclus thrusts his phone screen into Achilles’ face. “The current record for the UK under 18s is 1:47:54,” he tells him, tapping at the table where some dude from Wolverhampton made it big in the 1970s. “You _just beat that_.”

“Yeah, by like a second,” says Achilles, wrinkling his nose and stretching his arms. “Oh well. I’m kind of tired anyway. You should see what I can do on a good day.”

Patroclus cannot believe his ears. “You’re telling me this isn’t a PB?”

Achilles laughs.

Patroclus stares at him. “What _are_ you?”

Achilles’ smile is filthy, evil, better suited to snake than boy. Patroclus shivers as he beholds it, finds that his breath sticks in his throat as he meets Achilles’ gaze, narrow with diabolical pleasure, the green irises suddenly blazing with gold.

“I’m a wunderkind,” he says.


	8. Chapter 8

“Don’t tell anyone,” Patroclus expects Achilles to say.

Because Patroclus has just witnessed Achilles perform a feat that he’s pretty sure transgresses the realms of human possibility and it seems kind of likely that Achilles might want to keep it on the DL. He’s expecting urgency, voice lowered into a whisper in Patroclus’ ear: … _if the government finds out about this…_ maybe a secret contract or an oath signed in blood. But no, all that happens is Achilles’ foster carer turns up in a battered Volkswagon and Achilles, with a last shit-eating grin and a cheery wave, disappears inside it.

Perhaps, on some level, Achilles knows Patroclus isn’t going to tell. Not so much out of a resolve to secrecy, but because telling would mean admitting he’d seen what he’d seen. Patroclus isn’t sure he’s ready to admit to himself, let alone anyone else, what he has just witnessed Achilles do. He isn’t sure he’s ready for his world to be shaken like that. For the Universe to be shaken like that. It just doesn’t seem fair.

So he doesn’t tell Briseis or Demi, keeping silent through the rest of the meeting while inside his mind is a storm, experience wrestling against his entire understanding of the physical cosmos. He thinks maybe the toll of having your whole spectre of comprehension come crashing to the ground might be showing on his face because on the way back to the office Briseis asks if he’s ok. And Patroclus, struggling for words, tells her that he’s tired.

Lol. He _is_ tired. It takes a lot of energy to accept that, after all this time, his nemesis was right.

(his nemesis is Descartes.)

There are, however, more pressing matters to attend to. The Court hearing is fast upon them, and Briseis has yet to take Thetis’ statement in the light of Achilles’ confession. While Briseis makes an appointment with her over the phone Patroclus sets about photocopying the bundle for Court and Counsel. They haven’t got a barrister for the hearing yet, and for some reason Briseis is being weirdly cagey about who she has in mind. In any case, the urgency of preparation takes up so much of Patroclus’ concentration he is able to push Achilles’ world record to the back of his mind until the next day, he is almost able to convince himself that it wasn’t really so extraordinary. After all, gravity defying athletes pop up once a generation. Achilles’ talent was freakish, yes. But not superhuman.

The evening provides even more of a distraction as, for the first time since term began, Patroclus finds himself reunited with his best friend Andy Lokesh. Andy is home for a few days for some family event (a wedding or a funeral, he doesn’t seem sure himself) and, rather than spend the weekend having to explain to his parents why he is currently achieving straight 2:2s, opts to evade the fallout by playing videogames at Patroclus’ house.

It’s like secondary school all over again.

“I’m telling you dude,” Andy insists, while also managing to launch a grenade directly onto himself. “The girls up north, they’re so different. None of that game-playing, mind-fucking bullshit, you know? They tell it like it is. They want a good time, you want a good time. Simple as that.”

“Mmhm,” responds Patroclus. He has heard plenty about Andy’s experiences with the ‘girls up north’. From his very first week of freshers to the last day of term, he’s quite unsure what else Newcastle has had to offer him.

“I’m serious,” Andy continues. “There must be something in the water. They’re like a different breed.”

“‘There must be something in the water, they’re like a different breed’,” Patroclus deadpans. “Dude, you’re literally doing _medicine.”_

Andy shrugs. “Artistic licence,” he says. “Anyway, you should come up some time. I realise it might not hold exactly the same attractions for you, but. I could definitely find some hot guys to set you up with. Everyone there is pretty crazy.”

“Is that the excuse you gave to your parents?” Patroclus asks, eyebrow raised. “That you would have gotten a first in your practical, but you were just too dazzled by the attractions?”

Andy pulls a face. “Didn’t have to,” he replies bitterly before adopting a shrill and heavily accented female voice. “Oh Andeep, when are you going to start thinking with what’s between your ears instead of between your legs, all you ever think about is chasing girls, what good is that going to get you in five years’ time? What was the point of coming to this country, just for you to get a 3rd class degree and weighed down with debt, how are you going to get into medical school with that and pay your parents back for everything they’ve done for you...blah blah blah, something in Gujarati.”

He presses the buttons on the controller with rather more force than necessary, exploding the crates Patroclus had been hiding behind. Patroclus allows himself to get shot at a few times for the sake of Andy’s self-esteem before seeking more substantial cover. 

“They’re just concerned,” he says fairly. “You know, they only want you to be happy.”

Andy snorts. “Yeah, ok,” he replies sarcastically. “And getting a job that pays well enough that they don’t feel like they’ve wasted their entire lives bringing me up I suppose has _nothing_ to do with it-”

“-It might have a little bit to do with it,” Patroclus argues. “But come on, man. They moved countries just so you could have the opportunities they didn’t. They don’t want to see you throwing away your potential, especially when they never had that luxury.”

Andy makes a non-committal grunt in response. “I didn’t ask them to do that,” he mutters. “Anyway, they could stand to be a little bit nicer about it. And maybe not act like I’m betraying my culture with my every move.”

“Might help if you quit calling yourself Andy,” Patroclus suggests.

Andy gives him a withering look. “I learned my lesson from school dude,” he says, switching his shotgun to an Uzi. “Newcastle girls may be crazy, but no one at uni is about to go for a name as fresh as Andeep.”

Patroclus rolls his eyes as Andy resumes his onslaught with renewed vigour, accidentally hitting a truck of civilians in the process. Andy is a good guy and a good friend but ever since secondary school he has claimed the status of being the most insecure person Patroclus has ever met. Neither of them were very popular as teens and while it took Patroclus some time to realise why, Andy was convinced his unshakable virginity had something to do with being brown. Upon going to uni he seemed determined not to make “the same mistake”, shaving off every aspect of his personality that could be considered an Asian stereotype or taking the piss out of it. It annoyed Patroclus no end but at least he had now stopped moaning about when he would ever have sex.

“So what about you,” Andy asks finally. “How’s your love life going?”

“It’s not,” Patroclus replies shortly.

Andy looks at him incredulously. “Come on dude,” he chastises him. “You’re a fresher. You’re supposed to be putting it on wherever and whenever you can.”

“I’m a fresher with a steady job and a sustainable income,” Patroclus replies. “I’m already doing uni pretty badly.”

“You’re telling me,” Andy mutters. “Is that hot girl still there?”

“If you mean Briseis-”

 _“Obviously_ I mean Briseis, I don’t mean The Walking Dead costume department you call reception.”

“Yes, Briseis is still there,” Patroclus rolls his eyes again. “And for the last time, no, I will not ask her if she will go out with you. She is twenty-five, a solicitor, and _God,_ so, _so_ out of your league?? Like, I’m surprised the universe will even let you go within fifty feet of her. I should write you up a Non-Molestation Order on her behalf.”

Andy frowns at him. “Rude,” he says. “I’d treat her right, my little Turkish delight. Is there anything new happening with that case of yours?”

Patroclus squirms uncomfortably. “I’m really not supposed to talk about cases outside of work.”

Andy gives him a look of deepest scepticism. _“Bro,”_ he says very seriously. “It is literally _all you’ve talked about_ since you started it. Just because I’m here in person rather than through a screen doesn’t mean _now_ you can get all ‘not supposed to’ on me. You’re _obsessed_ with it.”

“I’m not obsessed-” Patroclus begins to defend himself just as the door to the living room clatters open.

“Oh,” says Patroclus’ dad.

He stares bemusedly round the room, as if he had expected a cave of riches amounting to much more than the chintzy furniture and faded lamp, and is now taking the anti-climax pretty hard. Patroclus presses the pause button on the console, turns to raise an eyebrow questioningly at him.

“Sorry,” says Patroclus’ dad. “I didn’t realise you boys were in here.”

He looks a little shocked. As if the last thing he had anticipated was to find his own son in his house.

Andy waves cheerfully. “Hi Menika.”

“Hey Andy,” Patroclus’ dad shoots finger guns at him. “I didn’t realise you were here.”

“I told you he was coming,” states Patroclus.

His dad scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Maybe you did,” he shrugs. “Must have slipped my mind. How’s uni?”

“Yeah good,” Andy grins. “Really enjoying it.”

“I’ll bet. Looks like it suits you, you’re looking hench. Been down the gym? Getting them gains?”

“Did you want to watch the football?” Patroclus cuts him off.

Patroclus’ dad shakes his head. “No it’s fine,” he says. “I’ll catch it on Sky plus. You boys have fun.”

Andy waves as he closes the door behind him. Patroclus resumes the game and for a while there’s no sound but graphics exploding until Andy breaks the silence.

“So things are still weird with your dad, huh?” he asks.

“As long as he’s my dad things will be weird with my dad,” Patroclus responds wryly.

“I don’t get it. Like, obviously I’m not around all the time or anything, what do I know, but…I dunno, he seems like a pretty chill guy-”

“He is,” Patroclus sighs, pausing the game again to rub tiredly at his eyes. “Like, he’s _fine,_ he’s just…I don’t know. He’s less like a family member and more like a dude who just sort of lives in my house and we have to try super hard not to get in each other’s way while reaching for the cereal, y’know?”

Andy makes a humming noise. “Why is it like that?” he asks. “Has he still got a problem with the whole…you know. Gay situation?”

“It’s not that he’s got a problem with it,” Patroclus casts around for the right words to try and explain the excruciating cocktail of awkwardness and miscommunication that is his and his dad’s relationship. “He’s not a homophobe. I mean, well, he probably _is_ but in the ‘makes inappropriate jokes about George Michael’ sense rather than the ‘get back ye souls of depravity to the gates of hell from whence you came’ sense. We just…don’t really get each other. Me coming out was more like the clumsy icing on the cake of uncomfortableness.”

Andy nods. Patroclus unpauses the game. The silence stretches on and Patroclus finds himself contemplating all the times his father’s clumsy attempts at reaching out had been hampered by incomprehension or blatant, wilful misunderstanding. _It’s not his fault,_ he wants to say. Even in his head it doesn’t sound convincing.

“What we should do,” says Andy suddenly. “Is swap places. Then my parents get the goody-goody, golden boy mega-nerd they’ve always wanted, and your dad gets the cool athlete.”

Patroclus forces out a laugh. “Right, because the Under 14s table-tennis semi-finals totally counts.” His phone vibrates on the arm rest and he picks it up, frowning at the bright green message lighting the screen. “Shit.”

“What?” demands Andy, peering over his shoulder.

“You know that case,” Patroclus explains. “Basically, the kid says his mum’s boyfriend hurt him and he wants to file his statement with the Court. But the mum refuses to testify against him, maintaining that he fell off his skateboard in her statement.”

“So what does that mean?” asks Andy, attention diverted once again to the video game.

Patroclus sighs. “It means,” he says. “Court tomorrow is going to be one hell of a dog fight.”

*

The next day Patroclus dresses in his most formal clothing; a suit that he only ever wears for Court and job interviews, and makes sure his shoes are shined and his shirt ironed. Outside the office Briseis is waiting for him in her darkest blazer and highest heels, the ones that make her look like a giantess warrior-woman out of ancient mythology. Her makeup is brutal, severe and flawless. War paint.

“What’s the status?” Patroclus asks as they hurry up the high street towards Court, heavy suitcases clanking behind them.

“I spoke to Thetis last night on the phone,” Briseis informs him. “She was in floods, nearly impossible to get just about anything out of her. But from what I could make out in between hysterics there’s no way she’ll say Darren did it. I don’t know whether it’s from devotion or pure fear.”

“But if Achilles says he did,” Patroclus frowns, trying to remember what Briseis has taught him in the past. “Then surely it becomes a conflict? We can’t represent both of them if they don’t have the same story.”

“No we can’t,” replies Briseis, her crimson mouth a tight, firm line.

“So what do we do?”

“We try to persuade Thetis to change her statement before the hearing,” Brises answers. “And if she doesn’t, then they’re going to have to decide between them who they want us to represent.”

Patroclus is not happy about that prospect. It’s usual practice, when the clients seek separate representation, for the previous solicitor to stick with the parents while the Children’s Guardian selects someone new to act for the child. Patroclus is not sure how he feels about sending Achilles off to be represented by someone else, which would mean the only one-to-one time he would have with him would be at Court. Actually, Patroclus does know how he feels. He doesn’t like it.

Dalham Crown and County Court is not an attractive building. Tall, looming and painfully modern, it used to be a factory that made Campbell’s soup or something equally disgusting and the smell kind of lurks in the walls and in the fibres of the faded carpet. Briseis and Patroclus rush through security, hurrying past the metal detectors onto the Family floor. The hearing isn’t until 10 o’clock but parties are supposed to be in attendance an hour beforehand for discussions.

Scanning the waiting room however, there appears to be no sign of Thetis or Achilles. Briseis sits down on one of the sagging green chairs, taking this opportunity to go over the bundle.

“Ugh,” she groans, flipping through the pages of Thetis’ drug test. “This is awful. Regardless of whether she caused those injuries to Achilles or not, no Judge in their right mind is gonna send a child back to a parent who uses.”

She puts the bundle down with a sigh, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “We’ve lost this before we’ve even started,” she mutters.

“Well, that’s not a very positive attitude.”

Both Briseis and Patroclus look up into a beaming, affable brown face and a pair of twinkling hazel eyes, almost improperly bright with amusement. His long, lean figure is clad in an expensive, high-brand suit, the cuffs folding over a pair of very fancy Italian shoes, far too nice for Court, and above the line of a sceptical brow his brown hair is perfectly coiffured and neatly parted, his short beard clipped and smart. Even so, despite his immaculate and expensive appearance, there is something about him that makes Patroclus think he should be on the other side of the witness stand.

He thinks maybe it’s the eyes.

“Miss Yilmaz,” Otis Seuss smiles, offering a smooth, well-manicured hand. “A pleasure to be finally working with you. I can’t tell you how delighted I was when my clerk received your call.”

Patroclus goggles at her. _He’s our counsel??_ he wants to hiss, but Briseis is very determinedly not looking at him.

“Likewise,” Briseis murmurs in a way that is perhaps not quite _totally_ unconvincing. “This is my assistant, Patroclus,” Otis winks at him and Patroclus’ insides squirm in a way that is not entirely comfortable. “Shall we find a conference room?”

Otis steps aside, arm outstretched for Briseis to lead the way. Briseis throws a dirty look over her shoulder before storming ahead into the nearest available space. Once inside Patroclus takes his laptop from his bag and prepares to start typing. Across the table, Otis is smiling blithely at Briseis who sits there, scowling back.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” she starts brusquely, slapping notepads and documents onto the table with force. “It was not, as I’m sure you know, my first preference to hire you for this case. I am well aware of your…reputation…particularly in regards to Criminal Proceedings and if it weren’t a matter of such great complexity and difficulty I’d rather take a state lawyer than take counsel from an infamous crook. As it is, you’re the only one I deem with the skill to win this, particularly in the light of who has been chosen to represent the Local Authority.”

“Say no more,” Otis raises his palm, nodding sympathetically. “Agamemnon and I have faced each other in the Court room countless times, and I flatter myself that I have never come off better than against him. You made a wise choice picking me, despite your understandable…ah…scruples,” here his eyes seem to glint even brighter with mischief. “Would that I could remedy such a slanderous blot on my good name and renew your faith in me.”

“That won’t be necessary,” says Briseis sharply. “We just need you to win.”

Otis makes a gesture Patroclus interprets as: _fair._ Briseis raps the surface of the bundle with her fingernails. “I take it you’ve had time to look over the bundle?”

Otis nods. “I have indeed,” he replies. “This Achilles sounds like quite a one. I have to say, I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“No doubt you could teach him a thing or two,” Briseis mutters under her breath. “So what’s the plan? What angle are we going for? Bearing in mind Thetis still refuses to testify against Darren.”

“I should think that would be obvious,” replied Otis, scratching his beard. “We convince Thetis to testify against Darren.”

Patroclus is ninety percent certain he has never seen Briseis this close to punching someone.

“Did they give you a Law Degree for coming up with that?” she hisses.

“My dear, in my day they handed them out like free M&Ms,” Otis waves dismissively. “Still, do not despair. I flatter myself that I have sufficient skill in changing her mind. Once we get a change of statement from mother it should be a piece of cake. The judge will _never_ buy that Achilles fell from his skateboard after he’s heard the doctor’s evidence but no matter, if all the physical blame falls on the boyfriend, we can shift some of the emotional stuff onto him as well. Thetis has got mental health problems? That’ll be a result of trauma. Thetis is using drugs? That’ll be a means of coping with the horrors of domestic abuse. Thetis is prostituting herself for miscellaneous individuals and dealing meth on the side? That’ll be because her indolent boyfriend drinks away what little money she makes and then bullies _her_ to make up for it. Voila, we have ourselves a sob story.”

“And you think that’ll be enough?” Briseis raises an eyebrow. “You think the Court will say Achilles can stay at home during the Interim, when his mother tested positive for _heroin?”_

Otis hesitates and Patroclus’ holds his breath, knowing the answer before it comes falling out of his mouth.

“No,” Otis admits as Patroclus’ insides sunk to his stomach. “I don’t think the Judge will allow Achilles to go home at first, not in the light of such damning drug results. But,” he added swiftly, as Briseis opened her mouth to argue. “I shall propose an alternative. Achilles remains in his foster placement for a minimum of three months. During that time, if Thetis can show she is able to put all the Local Authority recommendations in motion: abstain from drugs and alcohol, partake consistently in the Elysium programme, go for regular counselling and above all, uphold the inevitable Non-Molestation order against Mr White, then the LA undertake another parenting assessment and see if Achilles can return to her care for the remainder of the Proceedings.”

“A review period?” asks Briseis distrustfully. “That sounds highly unorthodox. What makes you think the Judge will go for that?”

Otis smiles enigmatically. “Let’s just say I have somewhat of a rapport with Her Honour.”

“You know it’s a conflict if you’ve slept with her.”

“Tragically, Athena is a lesbian,” Otis answers primly. “And I, very happily married.”

Briseis’ expression reads very much as though she did not expect this latter statement to amount to much of an issue, however she says nothing.

“Wait,” interjects Patroclus, ignoring every social instinct which screamed against drawing attention to himself in front of a barrister. “Are you saying you want to put Achilles back in foster care?”

“Just for a few months,” Otis replies, a little surprised by the interruption but glossing over it smoothly. “While Thetis proves she’s able to implement the changes.”

“He won’t do it,” Patroclus tells him. “Seriously. A foster placement is no place for him. He’s as much of a danger to others there as he is to himself. In his own words, ‘he is not above burning things to the ground’.”

Otis looks at him, amuses. “Patroclus, isn’t it?”

Patroclus blushes. “Yes.”

“And Achilles told you this himself, did he?”

Patroclus nods. Otis appears vaguely interested before shrugging nonchalantly.

“People say a lot of things in the heat of the moment,” he says. “I’m sure Achilles was feeling very angry and upset, as he has quite a right to be considering the terrible things that have happened to him. But in my experience, when it comes down to it, children will do almost anything to protect their parents. If that means having to curb his temper for a few months while she proves she’s capable of looking after him, if he’s as intelligent as these documents make him out to be, he’ll do it.”

Otis glances at Briseis for confirmation. She nods. Satisfied, Otis reaches into the pocket of his suit and fixes on a pair of expensive-looking glasses.

“Right,” he begins briskly, withdrawing a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. “Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty-”

Before they have a chance to brush on either the nitty or the gritty, however, they are interrupted by a sharp, anxious rap on the conference room door. Patroclus stands up to open it, revealing the harried-looking Court usher.

“Miss Yilmaz,” he breathes, fixing Briseis with a pleading expression. “I would very much appreciate it if you would _please_ get control of your clients.”

“Shit,” Briseis swears, immediately getting to her feet. “Are they here? Where are they?”

“In the lobby,” replies the usher curtly, holding the door open for her and Patroclus to rush out.

Despite the insulation of the conference room, the moment Patroclus steps outside he finds himself wondering how the hell he didn’t hear them. Thetis and Achilles are standing in the middle of the lobby, screaming each other with all the fury of a Biblical tempest. A small group has formed around them, some of whom are filing on their phones. Otis and Briseis push them out the way, Briseis putting a steadying hand on Thetis’ arm as she moves to her side.

“Thetis, stop!” she says harshly, stepping automatically between them. “Calm down, get yourself together-”

“You’re a bloody liar!” Thetis is shouting, her eyes full of tears as she gesticulates at Achilles. “Why are you doing this, you little shit, you fucking liar-”

“I’m not fucking lying!” Achilles bellows back. “I’m not lying and you know it-”

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME,” Thetis yells, the tears falling thick and fast now. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO OUR FAMILY, WHY ARE YOU _DESTROYING_ OUR FAMILY-”

“HE’S NOT MY FUCKING FAMILY,” Achilles shouts back. “HE’S A FUCKING PRICK AND HE FUCKED UP MY ARM.”

“Okay,” says Otis, sliding in neatly just as Thetis opens her mouth to scream a response. “Loving the energy here. Lots of passion, really evocative stuff. As your barrister though, it _is_ my professional advice that these sorts of discussions really should keep to the consultation areas.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Thetis lashes out, tossing her raven head to glare furiously at Otis.

“Excellent question,” Otis acknowledges. “We’ll have the other side on the rocks when it comes to cross-examination. Otis Seuss, at your service. I’ll be representing you and Achilles in Court today. That’s assuming…uh…you’re still seeking mutual representation?”

“Yes we are,” Thetis scowls. “As soon as _someone_ drops the bullshit and gets his fucking story straight.”

“I’m telling the truth!” Achilles snaps, folding his arms defensively across his chest. “You were there, you saw what happened! Why are you acting like you went fucking blind?”

“Achilles,” Patroclus whispers, putting a hand on his arm.

He doesn’t even know what he really means by saying it. At once though, Achilles clams up, his shoulders sagging at Patroclus’ touch until the only sign of his rage is the childish quivering of his bottom lip.

“How about we all just…calm down,” says Otis, attempting to follow Patroclus’ example by putting a hand on Thetis’ shoulder and withdrawing it sharply at her flinch. “Achilles, here’s a fiver. Buy yourself a Sprite or something.”

“There’s a guy just past security selling stolen watches,” Achilles snarls, snatching the money from Otis’ hands.

“Patroclus, go with him,” orders Otis.

Patroclus touches Achilles’ arm again briefly, leading him away from the lobby. Looking behind him, Patroclus catches a glimpse of Thetis sinking into one of the plastic chairs, her head in her hands whole Briseis attempts to comfort her. A sharp tug pulls somewhere inside his chest and he tears his gaze away, following Achilles through the doors that open up into the cafeteria.

The Dalham County Court cafeteria is, quite objectively, one of the least pleasant eating venues in the breathing world. Patroclus wrinkles his nose against the invasive smell of stale coffee and grease, the cause of which seems to be the oozing pasties and sausage rolls in a glass case on the counter, drowning in thick yellow pools of oil. Achilles buys one of each and Patroclus is forced to hold his stomach in while he demolishes them, chewing hatefully as though the meaty, dog-food-reminiscent filling had done him a great personal wrong.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” hissed Achilles, running a hand through his long hair and ignoring the disapproving looks from the two old women sitting nearby. “So this is what I get for telling the truth, huh? What a fucking joke. Now I remember why I don’t do it more often.”

“You did the right thing in telling the truth,” Patroclus assures him and yeah ok, he knows he’s supposed to be the sympathetic adult in this situation but seriously, could this kid make an already disgusting food look any more disgusting. “I know it feels bad right now but believe me, if the Judge detected cracks in your story then it would be so much worse.”

“How could it be worse?” Achilles demands. “You just saw her. She won’t change her story. What’s the point in me saying one thing if she’s just going to say the exact opposite? The Judge will know she’s lying anyway. I should just change my statement.”

“No,” says Patroclus sharply, grabbing Achilles’ hand. “I’m serious dude, you can’t do that-”

“Why not?” Achilles bemoans miserably. “At least if our stories match we have _some_ chance of the Judge believing us. And at least then we can keep the same lawyer.”

“There are plenty of other good lawyers,” Patroclus is about to argue but stops at the fierce look on Achilles’ face.

“No fucking way,” Achilles growls, his voice a low, rumbling threat. “I’m not having anyone else. And _I’m_ serious.”

Patroclus is somewhat confused as to why he is suddenly finding it much more difficult to breathe.

“Okay, fine,” he says, raising his palms in self-defence. “Fine. As long as you stick to what went down, I don’t care.”

Achilles snickers feebly. “Are you always this concerned about who goes down?”

“Seriously?” Patroclus winces. “Right now? You’re doing this right now?”

Achilles shrugs, all the life seeming to have gone out of him. He picks up the sausage roll from the table and offers it to Patroclus, for the moment apparently forgetting his dietary requirements. “Want half of this?”

“Absolutely not,” says Patroclus.

Achilles shrugs again and takes another bite. Patroclus sips his coffee.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for domestic violence and physical assault

Patroclus is considering the possible corrosive effects on his digestive system if he buys another coffee when his phone vibrates.

_> Briseis: Come back upstairs, room 24. miracles are happening_

He stares at the message for a few seconds, hardly trusting the words on the screen, before swearing and getting to his feet.

“Time to go,” he tells Achilles, chugging the last of the battery acid with a grimace.

“What’s up?” demands Achilles, following suit and standing.

“Apparently, we hired a literal wizard instead of a barrister,” replies Patroclus as they hurry out of the cafeteria. “Believe it or not, it seems he’s actually making some headway with your mother.”

“Are you shitting me?” Achilles asks, voice raised with scepticism. Patroclus doesn’t need to look back to tell that there’s not a bit of him that believes it.

They rush up the stairs and back onto the Family floor. The waiting area has suddenly become much more congested, filling up swiftly with families and lawyers so that its somewhat of an effort to manoeuvre past the several briefcases and buggies blocking their path. After many an _“excuse me”_ in Patroclus’ case and an impatient shove in Achilles’, they finally make it to their consultation room.

Before entering, Patroclus takes a swift peek through the glass. Thetis is slumped in her chair, her back and shoulders a tragic slope of hopelessness. Mascara tears lacerate her cheeks. Briseis seems to be offering her a tissue while Otis sits across, hands folded before him, looking on with sympathy. It’s not a very cheery scene. Before Patroclus can warn Achilles to be tactful however, he’s already moving past him, grabbing the handle of the door and barging straight through.

“Mum,” he cries, rushing over to her at once and flinging his arms around her thin shoulders, hugging her tightly.

Entirely contrary to what Patroclus expects, Thetis leans into the embrace. Her eyes well up once again; she turns her face into Achilles’ chest and Patroclus can just hear muffled through the sobs, the repeated words “I’m sorry”. Achilles continues to hold her close while she cries, shushing her softly and stroking a hand through her lank hair until finally her shaking subsides.

“Thetis has agreed to change her statement,” Otis informs him quietly, sliding a scribbled piece of coffee-stained lined paper across the table. “Would you mind typing this up and sending it to the Judge?”

“Of course,” Patroclus replies, dumfounded, picking up the piece of paper and skimming over it quickly. Otis’ long, slanting hand is not as bad as Briseis’, but its rushed urgency and decided lack of punctuation means Patroclus still has to squint to make it legible. Even so, he feels his disbelief swell inside him as he struggles through the first paragraph.

_I am making a new statement because I wish to confess that up to this point I have not been honest with the Court. I wish to take back my claim that Achilles’ accident was sustained by falling off his skateboard as maintained in my previous statement to the Court. I made this statement out of fear of my partner Darren and what he would do to me or my son if I spoke out against him. I concede that I love Darren and that my love for him in part motivated my desire to lie to stop him from getting in trouble however my love is equally matched by my pure terror. Darren is an incredibly violent, controlling, manipulative person who has carried out both emotional and physical assault on me and my son on several occasions, the details of which I will specify below and the most recent incident of assault being the injury he caused to Achilles’ arm. This is the latest incident in what has been an extremely abusive and volatile relationship which I now realise I have only continued as a result of psychological dependency and in a vain hope that things would improve. However I realise now that as a mother my priority must be Achilles’ safety which I must place above any of my fears or desires._

It’s not well-written. Patroclus has actually put together better. But if it the Judge accepts it, there’s a chance it’ll blow the whole trial out of the water.

“Thank you,” Achilles is whispering to Thetis. “This is amazing. You did so amazing, mum. I love you so much.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, and says nothing.

“Okay,” says Briseis, glancing at the clock as Patroclus begins to type feverishly. “The hearing will probably be delayed while the Judge considers your statement, even so, we don’t have that much time. So let’s just go through the process, let you know what to expect.”

“First of all, the parties will make their introductions,” Otis takes over. “Then the Local Authority will make their case. After that, I will make mine on your behalf and finally, the Children’s Guardian will make hers. Once that’s over with we’ll move on to the evidence. You'll be cross-examined by Agamemnon and myself, just keep calm and try to answer as honestly as you can. Doctor Asclepi will give his evidence, he’ll be cross-examined by both of us and finally Juno will give hers. A quick break and by the time we get back in, hopefully the Judge will have a decision as to whether Achilles can stay in your care during the remainder of Proceedings. Alright? Any questions?”

“Yeah,” says Thetis, head darting up fiercely. “What will happen to Darren?”

Otis and Briseis exchange a look, the former’s clearly reading: _All yours._ Briseis turns to Thetis, her expression heavy. “You’re going to have to press charges,” she tells her gently.

Immediately Thetis starts to shake her head. “I can’t.”

“You must,” Briseis insists. “It’ll give you a much stronger chance at showing the Court you’re serious. At the very least you should file for a Non-Molestation Order.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s an order from the Court which forbids Darren from coming into contact with you.”

Thetis is quiet for a long time and for a while there’s no sound apart from Patroclus’ tapping at the keys of his laptop. When she next speaks however, it isn’t about the order. “Does he have to give evidence?” she asks, jerking her head at Achilles.

Otis shakes his head. “Not today no,” he replies. “He may when it comes to the Final Hearing.”

Thetis nods, apparently satisfied. Her voice trembles slightly when she speaks again. “Do you think they’ll let me keep him?”

As if on cue Patroclus’ stomach plummets a little, as it always does whenever he hears those words spoken in that tone of broken pleading, the lilt of hope and optimism that’s always betrayed at the very end no matter how hard life has made the speaker. Thankfully though he doesn’t have to witness Otis and Briseis exchange another look, or chew their lips as they struggle to think of a way to break a painful truth gently. Instead, Otis makes a broad gesture, looking encouraging.

“There’s a good chance,” he replies. “What I’ll be suggesting is a review period, six weeks or so while you…er…while you sort some things out. If you can show the Court that you’re prepared to make the necessary changes during that time, then yes, there’s a possibility he’ll be able to stay with you until the Final Hearing. And of course, if all’s well and good till then, that places you in even stronger stead for him to stay in your care for the long-term.”

Thetis glowers angrily. “What,” she snaps. “So he has to stay in foster care for another six weeks? That’s _bullshit.”_

“I don’t mind,” Achilles says quickly. “If it’s only six weeks. My community service was longer than that and I didn’t burn anything.”

Patroclus raises an eyebrow, unsure whether Achilles’ definition of good behaviour should really equate to not committing arson.

Thetis also looks only marginally convinced if at all, however, she doesn’t protest. Reassured that there won’t be any more outbursts, Otis starts to go through Thetis’ account of Achilles’ assault, stopping frequently to make notes and ask questions. Meanwhile Patroclus chances a glance at Achilles, seated anxiously next to him. He’s still shaking his leg frantically but he looks more cheerful than Patroclus has seen him in a long time. His green eyes are bright and sparkling with optimism, his mouth quirked in what could broaden into a smile if Patroclus turned to initiate it. He doesn’t. As much as Achilles’ naïve faith warms and touches him, he doesn’t want to be the one to give him false hope if things turn out the other way.

A few minutes later there’s a knock on the door and the slightly less flustered-looking Court usher appears. “The Court is ready for you now,” he addresses Briseis.

Briseis stands up with a brisk nod, Otis more slowly following suit. Thetis gets gingerly to her feet, her mouth trembling as if she were missing the Court trial entirely and was headed straight for the gallows. Achilles slides his arm through hers, holding her tight against him and placing an affectionate kiss on the top of her hand. The gesture strikes Patroclus as strangely childish and his heart feels tight as he follows them out of the consultation box and into the Court room.

*

The other parties are already gathered as they traipse through the door, held open for them by the usher. The room is large with light, wooden-panelled walls that bounce a polished sheen off the surfaces, giving it an almost Church-like gravitas. The austerity is spoilt somewhat by the modernist furniture: chairs with sagging cushions pulled up to the benches, organised in long rows in front of the high font which now sits vacant, awaiting the Judge as if for a priest at the altar.

Juno is sat at the front bench next to Agamemnon; he gets up to shake hands as Otis and Briseis approach and Patroclus gives him the onceover. Like his brother he is on the shorter side, thickset and stocky, however that is pretty much where the resemblance stops. Whereas Mene’s heavily sweetened coffees and frequent trips to the delicatessen have long since run his gut to fat, Agamemnon is compact and powerfully-built, his formal suit not quite disguising the sense that he might have been a boxer in another life. His black hair is slicked with grease, combined with his sharp eyes and pointed beard giving him the appearance of an apex-predator.

Demi is also seated at the front bench, dressed in another floral shirt, her curly yellow hair messy around her face. She smiles at Thetis as she enters. Briseis directs Thetis and Achilles to the third row behind herself and Otis; meanwhile Patroclus takes his own dutiful position at the back of the room, joining the small cluster of other clerks and assistants. For a few minutes the Court hums gently with the polite buzz of small-talk, the rustle of notepads fished from suitcases and the click of biros. Then, silence falls – pregnant and expecting, with all eyes trained on the bench at the font of the room.

After what feels like an age, the usher gives the command. “All rise.”

Patroclus trips a little in his haste to get to his feet. He sees a door behind the dais open and shut, but he can’t make anything more out behind the dark wall of suits blocking his view. Finally, the parties bow before retaking their seats and Patroclus is afforded his first sight of Her Honour Judge Pallas-Areia.

His first thought is admiration for Otis’ daring to refer to her as “Athena”. Because quite honestly, Patroclus has never see anyone he would be less confident to address by a first name. Tall and imposing, with a posture that has her sitting in her chair as if she bore a spear for a spine, Judge Pallas’ physical stature alone would be enough to warrant the instinct to quail in her presence. It’s the eyes however, hard and grey as iron and shining from a face of dark copper that has Patroclus lowering his gaze, feeling himself unworthy to meet them.

The usual formalities are exchanged. Each party introduces themselves, who they are and represent – a tedious process considering even Patroclus is well acquainted enough with each rep that he barely has to make a note. After the trail of introductions, Agamemnon finally stands to make his case.

“The Local Authority has been involved with the family for little over a month,” he begins, voice steely and baring the slightest hint of violence. “The family was originally brought to their attention due to concerns raised by the school, regarding the number of missed attendances, unexplained bruises and injuries as well as his violent and anti-social behaviour while in attendance. Further contact with the family has resulted in a number of reports filed by neighbours of unidentified male visitors attending the property. Investigation by the police has connected these visits to criminal activity: namely soliciting, prostitution and drug dealing. In the light of these allegations, a Child Protection Conference was called on the 4th of February which placed Achilles on a Child Protection plan.

On the 13th of February an incident took place in which Achilles was admitted to hospital upon injury to his arm. The doctor’s report found the likely cause of this injury to have been non-accidental. A Pre-Proceedings meeting was triggered and the Local Authority decided to issue Court proceedings against the mother on probable cause and failure to protect. Drug test results received on the 18th of February also showed mother to have tested positive for use of cannabis, methamphetamine, ketamine and heroine.

It is the view of the Local Authority that Ms Nereida is unable to safely parent Achilles. While in her care, she has put him in contact with risky individuals and as a result Achilles has sustained a serious injury which the doctor’s report rules as non-accidental. Ms Nereida’s mental health issues, lifestyle and prioritising dangerous relationships poses a risk to Achilles and creates an unsafe environment which is damaging for his safety and development. The Local Authority have placed Achilles under the category of physical and emotional neglect and possible physical abuse. Thetis has failed to meet Achilles’ needs and it would be irresponsible to keep him in her care until the Final Hearing, at risk of further harm. Therefore, it is the Local Authority’s view that the Court makes an Interim Care Order, with a long-term plan of foster care placement.”

“Thank you, Mr Atreus,” says Judge Pallas, her voice clipped and impassive.

Agamemnon bows curtly. As soon as he has sat down, Otis stands. Patroclus might have imagined it, but he thinks he sees the flicker of a smile ghost the Judge’s face.

“Your Honour, am I right in thinking you have received the statement dated the 21st of February?” he asks.

Judge Pallas responds with a very unimpressed look. “Which would be today’s date.”

“Ah – yes,” Otis has the grace to look sheepish, however Patroclus is pretty sure it’s almost entirely fabricated. “My apologies for that. We had a last-minute change of heart.”

“I received it an hour ago,” replies the Judge, flapping the offending document on the desk in front of her. “In future Mr Seuss, please make an effort to file your evidence ahead of schedule like everyone else.”

“Duly noted your Honour,” Otis inclines his head deferentially before scanning the other faces in the Court room, none of whom are looking too pleased at this development. “And have the other parties also had a chance to review the statement? Yes? Smashing. Well, as you’ll have gathered upon reading, my client opposes the Local Authority’s plan. Ms Nereida admits she has struggled with her mental health, for which she has sought relief through drugs and alcohol. Ms Nereida’s financial position, as well as her own background and upbringing has prompted her to resort to illicit and risky means to provide for Achilles’ needs.

My client accepts the findings made by the drug report, however she asserts that she has not taken Class A substances in over a month and is now solely using cannabis. She is willing to comply with any steps necessary to work on her drug and alcohol related issues, as well as her mental health. However, my client does not accept the findings made in the social worker’s report, which claims that Achilles is at risk of neglect. Ms Nereida has always worked tirelessly to meet Achilles’ needs. The Health Visitor’s report, located in Section D of the Court bundle, is proof of this, describing Achilles as a perfectly healthy child developing well for his age.

Regarding the incident of the 13th of February, my client has withdrawn her statement alleging Achilles’ injury to have been caused by accident. She is now willing to testify against her partner, a Mr Darren White, who has been physically abusive towards herself and Achilles on a number of occasions, including the incident in question. Ms Nereida is a victim of domestic violence, who has maintained a relationship with Mr White out of fear, coercion, and psychological dependency. However, she is now committed to prioritising Achilles’ safety and ending the relationship. It is my client’s preference that Achilles be returned to her care, however, she is also willing for Achilles to remain in foster care while she undergoes the work the Court deems necessary to improve her parenting and lifestyle. Ms Nereida would also like to apply to the Court for a Non-Molestation Order against Mr White, who has yet to be made party to these proceedings.”

“How long does counsel propose to give Ms Nereida in order to make the necessary changes?”

“Six weeks, Your Honour,” answers Otis. “Which should give the Local Authority time to arrange a psychological assessment and parenting course for Thetis and Achilles, both of which were promised at the last CPC.”

The Judge nods, making a note before nodding. “Thank you, Mr Seuss,” she says, turning her steely gaze upon Demi as Otis sweeps into a deep, flamboyant bow. “What does the Children’s Guardian think of this proposal?”

Demi stands, hands clasped courteously before her. “Depending on the findings of the Court in regards to how Achilles’ injury was caused,” she begins. “It is my opinion that it is in Achilles’ best interests to remain in his mother’s care long-term. I do not find it convincing to say that Achilles is at risk of neglect in Ms Nereida’s care. Physically, Ms Nereida is able to provide for Achilles’ needs and there are no signs of emotional neglect. There is a strong bond between mother and child, and a strong sense of loyalty between them which I do not think would benefit from prolonged separation. In fact, I think the consequences would be _more_ destructive were Achilles to remain in foster care. I doubt that there is any force, Court Order or otherwise, that could keep him there.

However, I accept that it would be incredibly irresponsible to return Achilles to his mother’s care immediately. Ms Nereida has a lot of work to do, and her ability to care for Achilles depends on her willingness to cooperate with professionals and show that she can keep him safe. I therefore support counsel’s proposal that a review period be put in place, whereby Achilles remains in foster care until the Court deems it safe for him to return during the Interim prior to Final Hearing. Of course, this position is dependent solely on whether or not the Court finds that Thetis did intentionally hurt Achilles.”

“Understood,” Judge Pallas makes another note before lowering her pen. “Very well. Call the first witness to the stand.”

Briseis squeezes Thetis’ arm in reassurance as she gets shakily to her feet. Her approach to the box is slow, although this could be explained by the fact that she’s wearing three-inch heels. The clerk offers her the Bible to swear upon; Patroclus barely sees her mouth move in response before she is helped up into the stand.

“Please state your full name for the record,” the Judge’s voice in address to her is gentler than Patroclus has heard it so far.

“Thetis Nereida.”

“And your birthday is the 3rd of November 1983, making you thirty-four years old. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Please could you tell us, in your own words, what happened regarding the incident on the 13th of February? Be as detailed as you can.”

“It was the day of the social worker visit,” she starts, her voice trembling slightly. “Achilles was out – he went to school, but he didn’t come home straight away. The social worker visited with my solicitor and I did the drug test…they left about six. Then my boyfriend Darren…um, ex-boyfriend….came in pretty much straight after. He asked where Achilles was. I said I didn’t know and he started getting angry, saying stuff like he’s probably up to no good, saying it was his fault for getting us into all this because he never behaves. We got into an argument. Then at seven-ish Achilles came home smelling of weed. Darren turned on him straight away, started screaming and shouting. Achilles was talking back so Darren hit him on the side of the face, knocking him onto the floor. Then he grabbed him by the arm and wrenched it so that Achilles cried out. I got in the way and got him to let go; Darren did and then went outside for a fag. I told Achilles to get out the house for a bit, just until Darren cooled down. He did. The next morning, I get a call from the social worker telling me Achilles is in foster care.”

Her tone is blunt, matter-of-fact, the only betrayal of emotion being the slight lilt to her words and the shaking of her bottom lip. Still her expression is hard as she addresses the Court, her chin upturned in a subtle gesture of defiance. Patroclus can’t help but feel a stirring of fealty towards her, even as his stomach turns at the deadpan narration of the story. Truthfully as hearings go he has heard far worse – witnesses breaking down on the stand as they relate the most horrific instances of physical abuse, or worse, the words falling from the mouths of perpetrators who sit there, unfeeling and unsorry. Yet somehow his proximity towards this particular case, despite how hard he’s tried to deny his attachment to the victims, makes it that much harder to bear and he grips his pen tight as it darts across the notepad.

Otis stands. “Permission to address the witness, Your Honour.”

Judge Pallas makes an acceding gesture. “Proceed.”

“Ms Nereida, would you say that such exchanges between Achilles and your ex-partner happen on a regular basis?” he asks. “With a frequent deterioration into violence?”

Thetis hesitates for a moment before replying. “Yes,” she answers stiffly.

“And on these occasions, would you describe Achilles as an active or passive victim?”

Thetis’ brow knits in confusion. “What?”

 “Does he fight back?”

“Oh,” her expression clears but she bites her lip, still looking hesitant. “…Yes.”

“You paused before you answered there,” Otis points out. “Why?”

“Because…” her eyes flit nervously to Achilles, watching anxiously from the bench. “Because he never does it fully. He doesn’t do all he could.”

“Ms Nereida, are you suggesting that Achilles holds himself back?”

“Objection, Your Honour,” Agamemnon pipes up. “Leading.”

“Sustained,” allows the Judge.

“I’ll rephrase,” says Otis smoothly. “A couple of months ago, you received a call from Achilles’ school, alerting you that your son had nearly broken the arm of a member of staff. The individual in question was the caretaker, a man around his mid-forties. Am I right in thinking that’s a similar age to your partner?”

“Darren’s thirty-eight,” Thetis replies uncertainly.

“Right, so he’s a little younger. And he’s ex-army, isn’t he? Left due to a leg injury?”

Thetis nods. “Yeah.”

“And Achilles could overpower Darren if he chose to?”

Thetis’ eyes flash once again to Achilles, looking fearful. She pauses, chewing her lip before nodding again. “Yeah.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

Thetis shrugs. “Worried he’ll take it out on me, I guess.”

“Because you’re not strong enough to overpower Darren.”

“No.”

“Which suggests that you wouldn’t be strong enough to overpower Achilles,” Otis continues. “Should it ever come to that.”

Thetis snorts. “No.”

“But,” Otis goes on. “On the day in question, you mentioned and I quote: you ‘got in the way and got him to let go’. On these occasions when there are clashes between your partner and your son, where would you say you usually are in the room?”

Thetis catches on quickly. “Between them.”

“Between them. And what are you usually doing?”

Her bottom lip trembles. “Trying to stop Darren hurting Achilles.”

“So you physically put yourself in harm’s way,” Otis’ words are pointed to Thetis, yet it’s obvious he’s addressing the Court. “In order to try and protect your son, even though you know he is perfectly capable of handling the matter himself, should he choose to exert his full power. Thetis, has Darren ever hit you?”

“Yes.”

“Has he ever hit you hard enough to break something?”

“Yes.”

“Is it fair to say you are afraid of Darren?”

“Yes.”

“In light of what you’ve just said, is it fair to say that you did everything in your power to protect Achilles, while also staying mindful of your own safety?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions, Your Honour.”

With a final prim bow, Otis sits back down. Patroclus sees Briseis offer him a reluctant smile and Patroclus wishes he could do the same. It’s difficult to see how he could have done a more positive cross-examination. Before he has a chance to feel hopeful however, Agamemnon is on his feet. “Your Honour, permission to address the witness.”

“Granted.”

“Ms Nereida,” Agamemnon begins, swooping down instantly like a bird of prey. “How many serious incidents of domestic violence would you say there has been between Mr White and yourself?”

“Objection,” Otis interrupts. “The witness is not an expert, and can hardly be expected to place the same value on her experiences as professionals.”

“I’ll rephrase,” replies Agamemnon, voice slick as the oil greasing his skull. “How many instances of domestic violence have there been against you which left lasting physical evidence? That’s anything from bruising to broken bones.”

Thetis’ brow wriggles as she tries to come up with a number. “I dunno,” she shrugs. “Five?”

“And would you say that’s more or less than the number of incidents where Achilles has received the same?”

“Less,” answers Thetis reluctantly.

“In other words, Darren hurts Achilles more often than he hurts you. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And would you say that in every single one of those times,” Agamemnon continues. “Aside from the incident we just talked about, you did absolutely everything you could to prevent Darren from harming Achilles?”

Thetis blinks hard, lowering her gaze from Agamemnon’s piercing black eyes. A muscle jumps in her jaw. “I mean,” she mumbles. “Sometimes…there was maybe more I could have done.”

“You will have to keep your voice up, I’m afraid.”

“No,” Thetis says more loudly, though still refusing to meet Agamemnon’s stare. “I could’ve done more. Should’ve, even.”

Patroclus closes his eyes, a short, frustrated breath escaping between his lips. He thinks Briseis does the same. Thetis wipes her eyes with the back of her hand; when she lowers it her jaw is fixed firmer than ever.

But Agamemnon isn’t done. “At what stage did you physically get between Darren and Achilles?”

“When he grabbed him off of the floor.”

“At the same time? Or afterwards?”

“After.”

“Right. So Darren punched Achilles, knocking him to the floor. Then he wrenched his arm, hard enough to make Achilles cry out. I know we haven’t yet had the doctor’s witness, but judging from the angle we can assume this was designed to hurt him rather than to lift him up. After that he pulled him from off the floor, still holding onto his arm, and it was only _then_ that you got between them. Is that a fair summary of what happened?”

Thetis glances uncertainly at Otis, sensing that she’s being tested but unsure how. “Yes.”

Apparently satisfied with this answer, Agamemnon moves on. “After the incident, you told Achilles to leave the house. Is that correct?”

Thetis nods. “Yeah.”

“What did his arm look like at this point?”

“It stuck out a bit funny,” Thetis replies. “I couldn’t really see because he was clutching it.”

“But it clearly caused him pain, yes?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t take him to a hospital. Instead you just sent him out onto the street, is that correct?”

“…Yes.”

“Why? Were you trying to punish him?”

“No!” Thetis looks furious at the suggestion. “I just didn’t want him to be in Darren’s way while he was still pissed off.”

“In that case,” Agamemnon’s shark-like eyes flash before going in for the kill. “Why didn’t you send Darren out instead? In fact, why didn’t you send Darren out the first time he laid a hand on Achilles?”

“Objection,” Otis raises again. “Badgering the witness.”

“Overruled,” Judge Pallas replies. “It’s a perfectly fair question. Please answer, Ms Nereida.”

“I…” Thetis swallows, Patroclus follows the movement of her throat as she squeezes her eyes shut. “I…don’t...I _did_. I have. But he comes back.”

“Because you let him back,” Agamemnon prods her. “Don’t you?”

Instead of answering, Thetis just closes her eyes. Over on the third row, Achilles’ leg shaking has increased so violently Patroclus can hear the chair tottering up and down against the carpet. Around him, the room is so hushed it’s as if the entire Court is holding its breath. Like the oak panelled walls have suddenly found themselves plunged into water. It’s almost more than Patroclus can bear. He’s almost considering cutting himself off completely and hoping he has enough for a detailed attendance note when Agamemnon’s voice rings out once again, smug and self-gratifying in his triumph.

“No further questions, Your Honour.”

He sits back down. Patroclus breathes a sigh of relief.

“Ok.” The Judge glances at Thetis staring blankly through a wall of wet tears, threatening to trip and fall. “We can do the doctor’s evidence after lunch. For now, let’s take a break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry a lot of this chapter is repetitive, being largely regurgitated info from the previous ones. it's less a recap after my long absence and more down to the fact that a lot of the court process Just Be Like That.
> 
> i'm gonna aim for weekly updates from now on, which means the chapters might be a little shorter than before. If that doesn't work i'll switch back to fortnightly but no more three month breaks, I promise.


	10. Chapter 10

“How’re we doing?” asks Patroclus, sliding a coffee across the table to Briseis.

Briseis shrugs, raising the polystyrene cup to her lips. “Not terrible.” She takes a sip, gags. “Unlike this, Jesus. Did you just serve me diesel?”

“I mean, you knew what you were getting yourself in for.”

“I guess.” For a moment Briseis looks deeply miserable, although Patroclus suspects this is more aligned with a tragic hero experiencing intense peripeteia than anything to do with how the hearing’s going. “You know, you’d really think I’d have gotten used to it by now. Immunised my taste-buds, or something.”

“More like cauterised,” Patroclus nodded agreeably. “N’est pas important. Seriously man, what’s the score?”

Briseis manages another grimace before making an uncertain gesture. “I’d say it’s about 2-1 to us,” she answers. “Shit. I hate to say it, but I really did hire a bloody decent lawyer.”

Patroclus hums in agreement, glancing around the cafeteria in a completely fruitless search for Otis. Apparently too good for the Court café he had taken himself, his shiny Italian suit, and the stacks of cash sticking out the pockets to dine on avocado-filled wraps from the Prêt down the High Street. And Patroclus doesn’t have any proof of this, but he has a sneaking suspicion Judge Pallas had gone with him.

“You should be nicer to him,” Patroclus tells Briseis severely, waving the corner of the sad cheese sandwich he had bought form the counter in her face. “He’s on our side, you know. On our team. He’s our fly-half.”

Briseis quirks an eyebrow at him. “Fly-half?”

“Yeah. It’s like the rugby equivalent of a quarterback.”

“I know what it is, dickhead. I’m just surprised _you_ do.”

“Hey,” Patroclus frowns, leaning away from the table affronted. “It’s the Six Nations. I’m not an anchorite.”

“Yeah? Name me one player on the England team.”

Patroclus barely has to hesitate for more than three seconds before the name snaps out his mouth. “Leigh Halfpenny.”

Briseis gives him a sceptical look as Patroclus stares proudly back, trying very hard not to reveal that the only reason the name had come to him so quickly was because he’d been the subject of nearly every wet dream he’d had when he was fourteen.

“And what position does he play?” Briseis quizzed him.

Patroclus’ focus falters. “The…beautiful one…?” and when Briseis smirks, “Okay, fine. Achilles is watching it, alright? I got subjected to a full blow-by-blow report of Ireland versus Wales the second we left the Court room.”

Briseis smiles smugly. “I suspected as much,” she says, drumming her long, manicured nails on the surface of the table. She continued to look amused, gazing idly over the cafeteria and taking cautious sips of her coffee before her eyes turned serious again as she turned them back on Patroclus. “How’s he doing?”

Patroclus spreads his palms helplessly. “Like,” he begins. “He’s just been forced to sit through an hour going over extreme traumas relating to various incidents of physical domestic abuse and his first response is to talk about rugby.”

Briseis winces, gripping the polystyrene cup tightly in her hands as if by burning herself it would bring her a little closer to understanding what Achilles was going through. “That boy needs help.”

“That boy needs a foster placement,” Patroclus says bluntly and when Briseis stares at him, “Hey, don’t look at me like that, alright? I want Achilles to go home as much as you do, but come on. You really think she’ll do all that work? And in six weeks? She’s a dealer and a drug addict _and_ basically a prostitute-”

“Recovering drug addict,” Briseis interrupts him. “She’s been clean from Class As for a month,” and when Patroclus scoffs, “Hey. It might not sound like a big deal to you Mr ‘I urban-dictionaried-Mandy’ but for a lot of addicts that’s pretty huge. You don’t know what she’s capable of, why not give her the chance? In any case, lets leave the judging to Athena.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Patroclus protested, raising her palms automatically in self-defence. “I’ve read the reports, I know what kind of life she had to grow up with. Honestly, it’s a wonder she’s so well-adjusted, considering. I just strongly doubt whether she’ll be able to care for Achilles to the Local Authority’s standard within such a short time period. And if she can, whether that’s still in really in Achilles’ best interests.”

Briseis glanced at him dubiously. “You’re beginning to sound like a social worker,” she said, her voice heavy with distrust. “Do I have to remind you what we’re here for? We’re _lawyers,_ Patroclus. We represent the client because it’s how we earn a _fee.”_

 “I _know,”_ Patroclus rolls his eyes, conscious that Briseis is only joking but still for some reason feeling the need to justify himself. “I just…ugh. Whatever. I don’t know. I care about him.”

He mumbles the last bit, suddenly embarrassed. Briseis looks at him oddly, an expression of sympathy mixed with concern and Patroclus takes a sip of her coffee to avoid her gaze. Regrets it. Obviously he’s cared about clients before, as anyone with a decent amount of human empathy would, but he can tell that she knows, as he does, that despite what he has been telling himself these past few weeks this is different. It’s not compassion or normal moral decency that has him worrying about Achilles – wandering if he’s ok, if he’s happy and safe but something deeper, more personal. He doesn’t want to win the case because he’s a client and it’s their job. He wants to win because infuriating and potentially sociopathic as he is, Achilles is his friend and he wants him to be happy.

He realises this is a problem, professionally speaking.

But Briseis doesn’t berate him on it. Instead her faces softens, and she reaches across the table to pat his hand.

“I care about him too,” she admits. “But I also care about Thetis, and what’s more I trust that she cares about Achilles. Given the right push and some professional help I think this really could be a turning point for her.”

Patroclus makes a non-committal noise. “I hope so,” he mutters, before glancing up and jerking his head. “Speak of the devil.”

Briseis turns her head just in time to see Thetis and Achilles making their way towards them. She gets up automatically, drawing Thetis into a quick hug before asking if she wants anything. Thetis shakes her head curtly, eyes flashing over the cafeteria and landing on Agamemnon, sat in the corner with Juno and a couple of barristers.

“That bastard,” she exhales, lip curling with fury. “He’s a fucking wanker.”

“Yes, that is the general consensus,” Briseis concurs with a sigh, brushing crumbs of her shirt as she gestures for Thetis to sit down. “Are you alright to confer here? Or do you want to go somewhere more private?”

“Here’s fine,” Thetis grunts considering Agamemnon and Juno appear far enough out of earshot. “Where’s Otis?”

“Good point,” replies Briseis, glancing at her watch distractedly. “Patroclus, would you mind having reception call for him?”

“I’ll come with,” says Achilles immediately as Patroclus gets to his feet.

Patroclus rolls his eyes but allows Achilles to follow him out of the cafeteria. As they walk Achilles sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoody, skipping as jauntily as though they were taking a stroll through Dalham high street. He doesn’t say anything though, waiting for Patroclus to make the first move as if they were playing another chess game, and Patroclus guesses it’s up to him to make conversation.

“Have you eaten?” he checks, not because he doesn’t trust Thetis or anything but you know, he’s responsible.

Achilles nods. “We got a Maccies.”

“Chicken legend?”

Achilles nods. “Wasn’t as nice as the one you bought me.”

“You mean the one you blackmailed me into.”

Achilles rolls his eyes. “You’re so dramatic,” he tells him, exasperated. “God. You’d think all this shit was happening to you the way you go on.”

And that hurts, actually, and Patroclus feels himself falter. “That’s not…I never…” he tries again, wondering if Achilles really just says what he thinks or if he’s being manipulated again. “That’s unfair,” he finishes.

Achilles raises an eyebrow. “You wanna talk to me about fair?”

The back of Patroclus’ neck prickles uncomfortably and he’s aware of feeling ashamed. “Not really.”

Achilles hums, offering Patroclus a small smile. “Don’t feel too bad though,” he says. “I’m enjoying myself.”

Patroclus stares at him, scandalised despite himself. “You’re _what?”_

Achilles’ smile turns snakelike, curling wickedly at the corners. “Why not?” he shrugs. “Beats doing homework. Besides, it’s kinda nice to know you’re behind me sweating on my behalf.”

“Sweating because my hand’s about to drop off more likely,” Patroclus diverts to avoid the more obvious implication. “I really should learn shorthand.”

“Why can’t you just use a laptop?”

“Because,” Patroclus throws him a bored look. “Reprobates like you might hack into it when I’m not looking.”

Achilles snorts contemptuously. “I wouldn’t bother hacking into your laptop,” he says. “I bet you have the most vanilla taste in porn.”

Patroclus is saved from having to reply to that upon reaching the front desk. He asks the receptionist to call out for Mr Seuss which she does, leaving he and Achilles to drum their fingernails idly across the counter as they wait. As the seconds tick by Patroclus glances at Achilles, leaning bored and aloof against the wall with his thumbs tucked into the loops of his jeans. He’s toned sure, his limbs sculpted and delicately muscled from athletics presumably, but he’s still small for his age. Lean, not quite skinny but almost – the angles of his elbows and collar-bone jutting out starkly, betraying his slight undernourishment. Even with his youth and obvious vitality it’s difficult to imagine him taking down the heavy, thickset man Patroclus had seen outside his house that day.

“So about Darren,” he begins carefully, not wanting to frighten him away. “Your mum seems to think you could take him down, if you wanted to.”

Immediately Achilles is on guard, eyes flashing defensively as he jerks his chin away from Patroclus.

“Yeah?” he responds challengingly. “So what?”

“I’m just surprised,” says Patroclus quickly. “I mean, no offence, but you don’t quite look big enough to hold your own against a thirty-eight year old veteran.”

“He has a trick leg,” says Achilles defensively.

Patroclus shrugs. “Even so.”

“What is this?” Achilles demands. “Are you interrogating me now? Do you want me to go find a Bible?”

“No, no,” Patroclus reassures him. “Look dude, I’m not interrogating you-”

“Good because my mum’s not lying,” says Achilles fiercely. “I can take him, just you fucking watch me do it. I could do it with my hands tied behind my back too, I could do it with my eyes closed-”

“I’m not doubting you,” Patroclus says quietly. Truthfully. “I believe you. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’m just asking you how.”

He’s unsure how the conversation’s taken this turn. He sure as hell never meant it to. But ever since he’d seen Achilles break record time around a playground track in his school uniform the question’s been there, niggling at the back of his mind so deep he hadn’t known it existed until it fell out his mouth. Achilles stares at him and for a moment Patroclus doesn’t think he’s going to reply. But then his expression softens, the distrust giving away slightly under the sincerity of Patroclus’ words and he reassumes his standard nonchalant indifference, shrugging again as he flicks a strand of yellow hair out of his eyes.

“Beats me,” he replies casually. “I just sort of figured I was one in a million.”

“Okay, but did you get bitten by a funny coloured insect, or something? Or…go into a room you weren’t supposed to on a science trip, or…”

“Or fall into a vat of toxic waste?” Achilles smirks at him. “I’ve seen Sky High, bro.”

“Come on, be serious,” Patroclus says. Pauses. “Did you?”

Achilles’ grin splits as he shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no,” he replies. “None of that Marvel shit. In the words of the immortal Lady Gaga, Baby I Was Born This Way.”

“Could you like,” Patroclus wracks his brains for the words. “Not be a shit for like, five minutes?”

“What,” Achilles’ grin if possible, is even wider. “Are you panicking right now?” and when Patroclus doesn’t answer, “Oh shit, you are!”

“I’m not panicking,” Patroclus replies through gritted teeth. “This is completely normal. I mean, normal obviously not here meaning ‘usual’ but. Entirely plausible, in the realms of biological scientific plausibility. I have no reason to panic whatsoever.”

 _“‘Entirely normal in the realms of scientific plausibility’,”_ Achilles parrots pompously, confirming Patroclus’ hypothesis that actually, no Achilles is in fact _not_ capable of not being a shit. “Whatever man. You’re stressing out because you’re face to face with a real-life superhero and you can’t handle it.”

“You’re not a superhero,” Patroclus tells him flatly.

“Oh yeah?” Achilles retorts competitively. “How many other teenagers do you know can break through a water main and can run an 800 in 1.47?”

And like, okay fair point but in his defence Patroclus doesn’t know jack shit about sport, and Achilles does drugs maybe there’s some new form of Russian dope he doesn’t know about maybe his shoes are really fast maybe he’s got an endo-skeleton instead of tibias maybe maybe maybe

“Afternoon,” comes a voice from behind them. “You rang?”

Otis is smiling blithely, oblivious to the torment and confusion on Patroclus’ face. Patroclus tries to recover quickly, fixing his expression into one less obviously pained.

“Yes,” Patroclus forces out. “Consultations. They’re happening now. In the cafeteria.”

Otis nods briskly. “Excellent,” he says gesturing for Patroclus to lead the way.

Patroclus shoots Achilles a dark look before setting back off towards the café. He’s kind of unsure how to deal with Achilles’ new self-professed identity. For one thing he can’t imagine it doing much good for his ego. In another more pressing sense, superheroes don’t exist. Like sure, when Patroclus was flirting with science in his early days of high school he and Andy used to pass the lunch period reading comics and trying to unlock the seventy percent of his brain which was unused (he managed to accidentally put himself into sleep paralysis once. It wasn’t a good time.) And yeah ok, Achilles is good at chess. Like, freakishly good. And there are other things about him which are just as freakish, like the rate at which his mind makes patterns and connections almost as fast as the speed he can run around a circuit…but superhumans don’t exist. Patroclus is sure.

He's pretty sure.

“Alright,” says Otis, settling into the chair opposite Thetis with the air of one looking forward to a pleasant conversation. “How are you feeling?”

Thetis raises and lowers her thin shoulders. “Do I have to do that again?” she asks dully. “The questions.”

“No,” Otis reassures her. “No, we’re done cross-examining you. I think it went very well, don’t you?”

Thetis shrugs again, glancing uncertainly at Briseis. “I dunno,” she replies. “I thought it was but then that Agamem-prick started twisting my words, made me say stuff I didn’t want to-”

“I don’t think it hurt us too badly,” Otis says, more to Briseis than to Thetis. “Obviously Athena is far too classy and perfect in every way to discuss the trial outside of the Court room…but between you and me I get the sense she is sympathetic to Thetis’ situation. Could you have done more to protect Achilles from Mr White? Possibly. But that’s easy for us to say, right? None of us have been through what you have, can fully appreciate the level of control and manipulation you’ve been subject to, plus the added setbacks of mental illness for which you’ve had absolutely no help from services…all of this adds up to paint a pretty convincing picture of you as a victim in need of aid rather than punishment. Wouldn’t you agree Briseis?”

“Yes,” Briseis replies tentatively. “So long as the doctor finds that it was Darren who hurt Achilles, and not you.”

“Right,” Otis nods. “And it wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” Thetis replies tightly.

“No,” Otis agrees. “There you go, see? Absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Otis and Brises go over a few more details while Patroclus tries very hard to ignore Achilles making Spider-man motions out the corner of his eye. Finally the intercom rings overhead and a few moments later the usher appears to shepherd them back into the Court room.

*

Agamemnon smirks at Otis as he retakes his seat.

“Afternoon Seuss,” he greets him as if his name were some kind of private joke. “Productive lunch?”

“Very much so, thank you,” Otis replies courteously before turning a charming smile on Juno, sat at Agamemnon’s right. “And Ms Olympe. So nice to see you again. That’s a truly lovely colour on you.”

Juno’s prune-coloured smile is tight and thin. “Flattery like that might work on Pallas but it won’t work on me,” she says primly. “Your proposal is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Six weeks to make the changes? Don’t tell me you really have such faith in your client.”

“I have always tried to see the good in people.” Otis answers primly.

“Yes. So that you can exploit it,” Agamemnon snarls, flickering his eyes up and down over Otis’ expensive suit. “How is your wife, by the way?”

If Otis’ smile shifts it is barely noticeable. “Well, thank you.”

“I was very touched to hear of her Outreach program. Very admirable of you – all those at-risk, virile young men living in your house while you slave away at the office. I have to admit you’re a braver man than I, leaving her all alone with them.”

“Yes well,” Otis says, voice still level and polite. “I suppose we are all shaped by our experiences. You haven’t had the best luck in your family, have you? Tell me, how’s Nestra? Last I heard she was getting on rather famously with that young intern of yours. Or was that your sister-in-law? You know, it’s getting more and more difficult to keep up.”

Before Agamemnon has a chance to spit a savage response the Judge re-enters. The Court rises until she gestures for them to sit back down, before flipping through the bundle and snapping her fingers. “Calling Dr Asclepi to the witness stand.”

The thin, wary-looking Sicilian doctor who had treated Achilles’ arm climbs into the booth. Judge Pallas orders him to give witness, essentially a paraphrased version of what’s already in the report and Patroclus feels his mind drift in the wake of all the technical language and jargon. He tends not to note down too much during the expert witnesses; no one wants to wade through an attendance note that reads like something out of Grey’s Anatomy. Besides, he was there. He doesn’t think any number of witnesses and hearings could erase the memory of Achilles, alone and frightened outside a bus stop, face white and fingers bunching the material of his hoody as he gripped his arm.

After the doctor finishes Otis rises. “Permission to address the witness?”

“Granted.”

“Dr Asclepi,” Otis begins. “It is your professional opinion that Achilles’ injuries were Non Accidental, correct?”

“That is correct,” Asclepi nods.

“Now,” Otis continues, “As you say the bruise on the side of Achilles’ face betrayed knuckle imprints, suggesting it was done with a closed fist. Forgive me if this comes across sexist or presumptuous, but would you agree that if a woman were to hit her son it would likely be with a slap? Or at the very least with a loser hand.”

“I wouldn’t want to presume,” Asclepi says carefully. “But…yes. That would be my expectation. In any case, the force and precision of the hit leads me more inclined to believe it was conducted by a man, and one who had been trained to punch properly.”

“Similar question, regarding the sprained arm,” continues Otis. “Do you believe it possible for a seven-pound woman with less than average physical strength to have committed such an injury?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Asclepi spreads his palms. “It is possible. But to wrench an arm like that, almost out of its socket, would have taken a considerable amount of force and the position at which it was held again suggests to me someone who knew what they were doing, how to hold Achilles firmly while inflicting maximum damage.”

“Someone in the military perhaps?” Otis prompts.

“Yes, the army or the police force,” Asclepi agrees. “Pro-wrestling, martial arts. Something like that.”

“No further questions Your Honour,” Otis sits back down as Agamemnon rises.

“Dr Asclepi,” he starts briskly. “Considering the amount of force required to cause such an injury to a child’s arm, you would have expected him to have cried out, yes?”

“Oh, definitely,” Asclepi nods insistently.

“So the injury would have been made obvious.”

“It’s fair to say so.”

“And an injury such as that, bearing in mind the child has screamed upon infliction, it’s fair to assume that a hospital should have been the immediate first course of action? To rephrase, it clearly wasn’t an injury that he could have simply walked off.”

“No, most assuredly not,” Asclepi asserts. “The hospital should have been the immediate first port of call for any reasonable parent.”

“No further questions, Your Honour.”

“Thank you doctor,” Judge Pallas addresses Asclepi who bows slightly before vacating the stand. “Calling next witness – social worker Juno Olympe.”

Patroclus listens and takes notes as Juno runs through her version of events, her tone tight and clipped as though wary of giving anything away that might land her on trial. There isn’t too much of interest that Patroclus didn’t know already and the cross-examination is over quickly. Juno vacates the stand and Athena shuffles her notes.

“Parties to make final petitions,” she states.

“Your Honour,” says Otis, getting to his feet immediately. “Our client accepts that there has been more she could have done historically to protect Achilles from harm. She accepts that she has suffered issues with drug and alcohol addiction which have had negative effects on her mental health and affecting her capacity to safely parent Achilles. However, our client has had no professional help whatsoever from services since their intervention. Resources and treatment have not been made available to her and she lacks the tools and knowledge to access them for herself. Therefore our client thinks it only fair that she be given a chance to work with services and with their support amend her lifestyle so that Achilles may be returned to her care. As a sign of her sincerity our client would like to make a Non-Molestation Order against her ex-partner Darren. She would also like to enrol in the Elysium parenting and therapy program and she requests that the Local Authority provide a psychological assessment for herself and Achilles.”

“Acknowledged,” Judge Pallas inclines her head, running a hand through her hair before sighing. “I need to think this over. Take five minutes for deliberation.”

She exits the Court. The moment she leaves the parties start talking amongst themselves – Demi crosses the room and greets Thetis warmly before immediately engaging Briseis and Otis in animated conversation. Meanwhile Achilles pushes his chair away, walking purposefully to the back of the room towards Patroclus.

“How’s it going, Robin?” he asks, settling himself down in the plastic chair beside him.

Patroclus glares at him. _“Don’t_ call me that,” he says warningly.

“I thought it was pretty clever. You know. ‘Cos I’m Batman.”

“I got it. You don’t need to explain it.”

“Christ, someone’s touchy,” Achilles smirks, leaning back in his chair and promptly almost falling off. “What’s your problem man, come on? What’s the stress?”

“The _stress_ is someone finding out that you’re secretly a…a mutant freak or whatever,” Patroclus hisses. “And it somehow affecting the trial. Or worse.”

Achilles raises an eyebrow. “Worse?”

Patroclus doesn’t reply but inside his mind his reeling with the possibilities of what could happen if anyone else finds out – Achilles being handed over to the authorities, the government, some private corporate scientific institution running all sorts of military or commercial experiments on him…turning him into some sort of bioweapon…granted, it’s possible Patroclus watches too much Blockbuster television but also come on. He’s from the generation of post Bush in Iraq. He’s read up on Iran-Contra. If there’s one thing he knows for sure its this: do not trust the Western government.

Achilles, however, having never studied state policy with all of Patroclus’ bipartisan detail, is clearly not so woke. “Come on man, it’s really not that deep,” he rolls his eyes. “So I can run fast. So I can fuck up a man with two hands tied behind my back. Big deal. The hearing’s almost over anyway.”

“You do realise that this is the _first_ hearing of a _six month process?”_ Patroclus demands.

Achilles frowns, wrinkles his nose. “Really?” he says sceptically. “It’s gonna take that long? What the fuck, dude. I’ve got shit to do.”

“Don’t we all,” Patroclus mutters darkly, scanning the Court room to gather some sense of when the Judge will be returning. Over in the corner Agamemnon and Juno are talking very quickly with their hands close together, Quite apart from the general chatter going around the room, there's something in their clandestineness which gives the air of scheming rather than simple consultation. Patroclus watches them, apprehensive curiosity burgeoning in his stomach and mirrored on Achilles’s face beside him.

“What are those two talking about?” he asks.

“Good question,” Patroclus replies warily. “Nothing good.”

His suspicions are validated when, by the time Judge Pallas re-enters, both Agamemnon and Juno are wearing matches expressions of supreme smugness. After waving at them to sit down once again Athena folds her hands in front of her, grey eyes scanning the Court room with cool deliberation.

“The judgment is as follows,” he announces and Patroclus fumbles for his pen. “The Court finds that the Non-Accidental injuries suffered by Achilles were perpetrated by mother’s partner, Mr Darren White. While the Court concedes that mother has failed to protect Achilles by prioritising her relationship with risky individuals above the safety of her own child, the Court also finds that mother is a victim of severe physical and emotional coercion for which only regular and cohesive professional help can assist in her recovery, help which previously been denied to her. For this reason, the Court accepts the proposal from mother’s counsel and the advice of the Children’s Guardian that Achilles remain in foster care for a minimum of six weeks while mother works with services to make the necessary changes. If mother has refrained from partaking in drugs and alcohol and has committed to the Elysium parenting program and upheld the Non Molestation Order against Mr White then a parenting assessment will be made by an Independent Social Worker to determine whether Achilles may return to her care for the remainder of the proceedings. During that time the Local Authority will arrange for a psychological assessment of Thetis and Achilles and also provide resources for her to work on her mental health and related issues. Contact arrangements to be decided by parties with a minimum of six hours per week, first two sessions to be supervised by services. Any final petitions?”

“Your Honour,” Juno voices, her breath catching slightly in her excitement. “It has just come to the attention of Services that Achilles’ father has not been made aware of the proceedings.”

A hush falls over the Court, so deep that Patroclus is scared to move for fear that he might disturb it. Beside him he feels Achilles tense. Otis clearly has no such preoccupations however as Patroclus sees him lean closer to Briseis I order to whisper in her ear.

“There’s a _father?”_ he says, stunned.

“Yes, there’s a father,” Brises hisses back. “It’s Liam Pelides.”

“It’s _Liam Pelides?!”_

“Did you even _read_ the genogram?!”

“I skimmed it,” replies Otis defensively. “I’m not good with graphs.”

“And why is this coming to the attention of the Court _now?”_ Judge Pallas demands, eyes flashing with cold fire.

“An oversight clearly,” Juno replies smoothly. “Which will need to be rectified, should he wish to step forward as primary carer. Achilles’ grandparents will also need to be assessed.”

“No!” Thetis’ voice rings out, loud and furious across the room. “No fucking way, I’ll die before that man sets his hands on my son-”

“Ms Nereida, please control yourself before I have to hold you in contempt,” Judge Pallas cuts across her firmly, although not unkindly. “Ms Olympe, please see it done that Mr Pelides is notified of proceedings and that a parenting assessment is conducted of the maternal grandparents. I am right in thinking that they live in Ireland?”

“That is correct Your Honour,” Juno confirms.

“Let’s consider that a final resort then. I should think it a priority for all parties concerned that Achilles be able to remain in this country,” she snaps the bundle closed, tucking it beneath her arm before getting to her feet one final time. “Court dismissed.”

She leaves and there’s a flurry of papers and clicking briefcases as the parties move to gather their things. Briseis and Juno linger briefly to discuss contact arrangements around Thetis’ work schedule; meanwhile the latter stands as if frozen, paralysed with the shock of everything that has just transpired in the past thirty seconds. She looks as if she’s just been slapped in the face. Patroclus turns to Achilles, expecting to see a similar expression on his face, and his surprised to see him smiling brightly.

“Well I don’t know about you, but that sounded like a win to me,” he says cheerfully, jumping to his feet. “Nice job, Robin. Can I go now? There’s a trick I’ve been trying for days on my skateboard that I wanna work on. Guess what it’s called. Come on, guess.”

“What?” asks Patroclus, barely listening as he waits for Briseis to finish up.

Achilles grins ferally, all sharp points and teeth. “The Hospital Flip,” he says, cracking up at Patroclus’ horrified expression. “I’m just kidding man, I cracked that one ages ago.”

Patroclus grunts in reply, unwilling to give him the credit of a response. Not used to being ignored, Achilles tugs on his arm.

“Hey,” he says. “So I’m in foster care for six weeks. You’ll visit me, right?”

Patroclus turns a tired expression on him. “You know I’m not allowed.”

Achilles does not look in the least bit perturbed. “You will,” he says assuredly, turning to follow Briseis and Otis out the Court room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy Easter/Passover!


	11. Chapter 11

Jane is trusting.

It’s the sort of faith that comes under duress. Like when a wounded animal has a choice between the human offering it water and the gunshot in its side. Beneath the fragile surface of trust there is a fear, sharp and pungent like sweat. It’s in the walls of her house, in her hands shaking on the endless cups of tea she places in front of him. An entire life governed by the ever-present bitter, tang of fear.

Between the scalpels, petri dishes, syringes and medicines, it’s the most useful tool at his disposal.

They meet when her daughter is out of the house, in the afternoons she has free from work. Progress is slow, at first. She’s so terrified of herself that even the slightest movement has to be carefully planned, carefully recorded to give her the sense of order. Of control. She needs him to know what he’s doing and he does, gently and gradually bringing her out of her comfort zone, conducting more and more experiments with the oven mitts off. Testing the different results of her hands on various materials: wood, metal, rubber, lead. Every outcome, every constancy or variation is meticulously written down and catalogued. He takes her through his hypotheses, filling her in on every new theory that enters his brain and regardless of how wild, how improbable and estimative she nods, looking at him like he’s her Saviour.

He knows time is running out. He has almost all the information he can gather from cheek swabs and cuts of hair. And behind the reassurance the fear remains, a palpable growing thing as her hands still burn beyond her control, and yes he tells her it’ll get easier with practice but she doesn’t want it to get easier, doesn’t want it at all, and he told her he would help her get rid of it if that was what she wanted and she does and he still hasn’t.

But she’s trusting.

*

“-But it’s like I keep saying. It’s not a question of whether you’re ‘woke’ or not, like dude, it’s 2018, you don’t even get to qualify as a millennial anymore if you don’t take a progressive stance on the big issues: race, sexuality, gender, etcetera. Or are we Generation Z? Whatever, unimportant. Point is people our age are even beginning to understand that your liberal politics don’t mean jack if your economics still sound like they’re coming out a Thatcherite’s arsehole. Hey! Thatcher-shite. Haha. Anyway, like, yeah…everyone’s got a Tumblr these days and whatever but it’s almost like it’s become a competition among our generation to see who’s the most ‘woke’. To the point that it’s creating so many subdivisions and petty infighting that it’s fracturing the bigger picture. Like with Grenfell and everything? You know my friend Georgia, she got a load of shit for wearing a Grenfell t-shirt because, y’know. It wasn’t like she did anything for the community beforehand. But how is that her fault, she doesn’t live in _London,_ you know, it’s hardly like she was able to jump in her mini and shoot of down the M1 to help put up scaffolding. You should see her mini by the way, it’s the _cutest_ thing. Wrong colour though, yellow does _not_ go with her aura-”

“Dee-Dee,” Patroclus interrupts, putting his pencil down in order to rub the growing migraine out of his temples. “Which Article supported the fishermen in the Factorfame case?”

“Articles 5 and 177,” Dee-Dee answers abruptly, shoving the folder at him before raising an eyebrow. “Seriously, dude?”

“I forgot.”

“You should really know that. That’s like…A2 politics unit test level.”

 _“I forgot,”_ Patroclus repeats through gritted teeth. _More like I had it steadily drummed out of me since you started talking. Along with every other fact in my BRAIN._

Dee-Dee gives him a look of mixed smugness and contempt. “I can’t remember the last time I forgot something,” she says, which is a completely fallacious statement, but anyway. “The system I use to make notes was officially rated by _The Economist_ as the most effective in organising and retaining information. Look see,” she turns her enormous file towards him, thrumming a finger through the brightly coloured dividers. “First you order everything by date and case number. A lot of people like to alphabetise their cases, but if you do it by number then there’s far less chance of a mix up. Like the other day, Bethan Housefield got R versus Dudley and Stephens confused with R versus da Silva which was _hilarious-”_

“R versus Dudley and Stephens happened in 1884,” Patroclus looked at her boredly. “So if she’s confusing that with modern cases then I don’t think alphabetising is her biggest problem.”

“Ok, well yeah. She does no work and she’s probably gonna get kicked off the course. But whatever. My _point_ is it’s bullshit that I, with an immaculate note-system, who can remember every significant legal case that happened since the 19th century, can’t get a placement while you with your…your scribbled on napkins-”

 _“One_ scribbled on napkin!” Patroclus protests. “I didn’t know we had a lecture and I was in a hurry.”

“-Land a job at one of the few well-respected solicitors in the area,” Dee-Dee continues huffily. “I mean, alright. It’s not _Trojan_ but-”

“Hey!” Patroclus says indignantly. “We’re better than Trojan.”

“Uhuh ok, sure,” Dee-Dee rolls her eyes. “And Hector Priamoğlu didn’t just become the youngest Silk in history.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, it’s easier than ever to become a Silk these says,” Patroclus mutters, quoting Briseis’ bitter reaction upon discovering that another Turk had kicked her to the post. “They’re a Chambers anyway so there’s no point in comparison. Plus, all their barristers are really stuck up, considering they have the same name as a condom line-”

“Oh, is that why you can never get any?” asks Dee-Dee. Patroclus throws a pen at her.

“Are you two quite finished flirting?” the seminar leader rebukes them as the pen misses Dee-Dee completely, hitting him on the shoulder. “Or do you find Parliamentary Approval so boring you’ve resorted to throwing your own missiles?”

“Very heteronormative of you to assume we’re flirting sir,” Dee-Dee retorts. “For all you know, I could be a lesbian. And Patroclus is just really, really bad at being gay.”

“Hey, shut up,” Patroclus hisses, cheeks burning.

“What? You’re out. You’re wearing rainbow socks today. Or is it the ‘being bad at it’ you take objection to? Because I keep telling you dude, if you just womanned the fuck up and got Tinder you’d probably pull-”

“Done discussing this,” says Patroclus abruptly, and although it doesn’t shut Dee-Dee up he still manages by some sheer force of will to tune her out for the rest of the seminar.

After class however Dee-Dee follows him out, keeping up her incessant stream of chatter as they leave the department and begin the walk off campus. Patroclus isn’t listening, taking the time to check his phone which during the course of the seminar has been going off with messages, all of them from Achilles.

_> Achilles: u know wats a weird word? house. because its spelt same as mouse but more than 1 isnt hice. whats up w that_

_i bet they made language fuckt on purpose to make it rly hard 4 poor ppl 2 learn_

_> and imagrints _

_> immagrints_

_> immigrents _

_> immigrints_

_> wtf_

_> imigrints _

_> immigrants_

_> see what i mean!!!_

_> Patroclus: TURN YOUR AUTO CORRECT ON_

_> Achilles: no_

_> i shouldnt have 2!! language should b Easy and Accessable _

_> *accessible _

_> see thats dumb if the word comes frm “able 2 access” then it should b spelt that way_

_> Patroclus: It probably was before they standardised it_

_> Achilles: whos they?_

_> Patroclus: That is a really good question. I don’t actually know. A bunch of old dudes who had a boner for Latin_

_> Achilles: fuck latin_

_> actually no its quite fun. acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt!!_

_> Patroclus: See how the hell do you know that and not how to spell “immigrants?”_

_> Achilles: idk. theres a racist poster on my road i thought that was just how u spelt it_

_> Patroclus: I know. I’ve seen it_

_> Achilles: hey u know what u havent seen?? my new bedroom ;) ;) ;)_

“Who are you talking to?” Dee-Dee peers at Patroclus’ screen as he attempts to turn his involuntary snort into a cough.

“No one,” Patroclus answers immediately, unsure why he doesn’t just say “my friend’” or “my mum” or anything at all would have been less suspicious, really.

Unsurprisingly this only serves to make Dee-Dee look more curious, heavily plucked eyebrows shooting into her pencil-straight fringe. Instead of pressing Patroclus on it though she starts to chew her lip in a way which, if Patroclus didn’t know better, he might have defined as anxious.

“Hey,” she says. “You are actually out, right? I didn’t say something totally out of line just then.”

For a moment, Patroclus is so taken aback that he looks up from his phone. “Yeah, I am,” he says once he’s found his voice, briefly considering whether he should go into the fact that his being out doesn’t necessarily qualify to wanting the details of his sexuality shouted across a classroom before settling on: “No. You’re fine.”

“Ok good,” Dee-Dee physically relaxes and Patroclus is just about to grudgingly thank her for asking when she follows it up with, “That’s what I told Alex.”

For a second, Patroclus just blinks at her. When no elaboration comes, he waves in her face. “Alex??”

“Yeah. Alex Lakin. Seriously dude, keep up, I was telling you about him the other day. Anyway, I said you were looking to meet somebody and he _definitely_ sounded interested-”

“I…” Patroclus splutters, actually too appalled to string words together properly. “ _Am not…?!”_

Dee-Dee just fixes him with a cool, sceptical glance, entirely unphased. “Okay you’re not,” she says, holding her palms up defensively. “My bad. But I told him about you, and he seemed really into it. Not in a creepy way, I mean he doesn’t have like, an Asian fetish or anything, just that you’re quiet and smart and theoretically nice to like, homeless people I guess-”

“Dee-Dee,” Patroclus cuts her off before she can get round to accidentally saying something positive about him. “I already told you. I don’t want you fixing up any dates for me.”

“Oh my God, I didn’t,” Dee-Dee huffs, flicking her black hair out her eyes. “All I did was _suggest_ a few days when you might be available to a very good-looking friend of mine, like, excuse _me_ for being a nice person. It’s not like you have to go. Besides, you’ll see him at the course party in a couple of weeks. And don’t tell me you’re not going,” she snaps before Patroclus can open his mouth to protest. “Because I spoke to Dice and they told me you gave them your _word._ Said that you promised _three times.”_

“Seriously, why is that such a big deal with them?” Patroclus wonders.

“I don’t know, dude. Haven’t you ever seen Fight Club?”

Patroclus shrugs. “Snoozed through it.” Andy had made him watch it. Quite apart from the toxic masculinity only barely masking the blatant homoeroticism evident in a bunch of men queueing to be beaten up by Brad Pitt, he hadn’t particularly enjoyed it. At least Andy had let him put on _Notting Hill_ afterwards.

A loud ping from his phone makes him glance down. A grin crawls unbidden onto his face seeing it’s Achilles’ response, momentarily forgetting about Dee-Dee and Alex as he taps out his reply.

> _Patroclus: No. I haven’t. What’s it like?_

_> Achilles: big. waaaay bigger than my one at home. wallpapers ugly af tho. srsly it has boats_

_> so when u comin 2 c it_

_> bcos u kno if u have time 2 talk 2 me then u have time 2 c me _

_> Patroclus: Interesting logic_

_> Achilles: come on man. its dry af over here im boring my nuts off _

_> Patroclus: What a visceral image_

_> Achilles: broooooo_

_> srsly tho i need 2 talk 2 u_

_> Patroclus: We’re talking now_

_> Achilles: no man. not online its gotta b face 2 face i dont trust the FBI agent watching me rn_

_> its about U KNO WAT_

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Patroclus rolls his eyes at the superman gif, running a hand through his hair.

Catching the action, Dee-Dee frowns at him concernedly. “What’s up?”

Patroclus huffs, staring at his screen without answering as the messages keep coming. “My…a friend of mine wants to talk to me about something really important, but he won’t tell me unless I go over to his.”

Dee-Dee’s frown intensifies. “But you don’t wanna go?”

Patroclus’ stomach squirms uncomfortably. “It’s more like I can’t,” he replies, wondering how much he’ll be able to say before Dee-Dee pushes his buttons enough to force him into spilling everything about his supernatural Care client. “I’m not really supposed to see him. It’s kind of a long story.”

For once Dee-Dee doesn’t press, except to say: “But it’s important, right?”

Patroclus nods, unwilling to tell her anymore but also mindful that his brain’s already going a thousand miles per hour in its anxiety over what Achilles has to tell him.

“Where does he live?” prompts Dee-Dee.

“Outskirts of Dalham,” Patroclus replies.

Dee-Dee nods. “I’ll give you a lift.”

Patroclus stares at her. “Seriously?”

Dee-Dee shrugs. “Sure,” she answers, already fishing in her pocket for her car keys. “I was planning on going later for some nylons so might as well take you now.”

“Thanks,” says Patroclus, in all honesty too taken aback to muster a response with any more gratitude.

“No problem.” Dee-Dee leads the way to the car park, opening the passenger seat for Patroclus and climbing inside. “And don’t sound so surprised, okay? I already told you. I’m a super nice person.”

*

Dee-Dee drops Patroclus off, as per Patroclus’ instruction, at the junction just before turning into Achilles’ ends. It’s not because he’s embarrassed at the thought of her knowing he has a friend from round here…although the look on Dee-Dee’s face as they pass some of the rougher-looking pubs is enough to affirm her earlier lecture about liberal classicism. But as shady as an unauthorised visit to a care kid might be, Patroclus would be in a whirlwind of trouble if anyone found out he had given away the address of a client.

After Dee-Dee drives away, Patroclus begins the short walk to the foster placement. Achilles’ new home is in a much nicer area than his old one and although that really isn’t saying much, Patroclus enjoys being able to move around in daylight without having to fear someone yelling a racial slur at him from across the street, or a pack of skinheads setting on him with a dog. The neighbourhood, although clearly not wealthy, is much cleaner, with less of the trademarks of poverty than where Achilles and Thetis lived before. On his way Patroclus passes fewer boarded up windows, and only one dirty mattress.

Once he reaches the house – an average-sized semi-detached with a neat, square front garden – Patroclus messages Achilles. Five minutes later the door opens.

“Dia dhuit,” Achilles greets him, face nearly splitting apart with his grin.

“Gesundheit,” says Patroclus, stepping inside.

“Don’t be racist,” says Achilles.

He closes the door behind him. Patroclus takes a moment to look around. It is very clearly a family home, with various photos and childish crayon drawings blue-tacked to the walls. Glancing into the living room he sees the floor is littered with toys and colouring pens where two children are working studiously, going over enormous paper canvases with felt tips while the older kids are sat on the couch watching TV. Patroclus hears music coming from the radio in the kitchen, the sound of a woman’s voice humming along. Achilles gives him a little push.

“Upstairs before she sees you,” he tells him.

“Did you not tell her anyone was coming?” asks Patroclus, heading up the stairs.

Achilles shakes her head. “She always checks who it is,” he replies. “And if she sees your face she might recognise you at the next CPC.”

Patroclus nods. “Good thinking.” _And why is he praising him for successfully managing to sneak people illicitly into his foster home, he could have done this for anyone, he could have done this for his mother, for Darren, for his drug-dealer-_

“This one’s mine,” says Achilles, pushing the door open.

Patroclus follows him in. Truthfully Achilles’ description is pretty accurate; it’s about twice the size of his old bedroom, to the extent that the possessions he’d taken with him kind of look at a loss of what to do with all the space. The rest of the furniture is all new, from the bed to the chest of drawers to the desk, clearly optimistically bought for school work but currently taken up with Achilles’ ever-growing stack of comic books. The wallpaper is also pretty ugly. There are boats.

“Why boats?” queries Patroclus, examining the little cartoon drawing. There’s a tiny man waving from the prow. Weird.

“Fuck if I know,” responds Achilles irritably, moving some editions of _Black Panther_ off the desk chair so Patroclus can sit down. “My foster parents are pricks.”

“Are they actually?” Patroclus raises a sceptical eyebrow as he takes the seat. “Or are you just saying they are because you’re angry and want to go home?”

Achilles glares at Patroclus, throwing himself onto the bed and leaning back onto the triangle of his arms. “Fine. They’re alright,” he rolls his eyes, spitting out the words as if they’d been poison. “They’re just so…much, y’know? They keep asking me how I am, if everything’s okay, if there’s anything I need…like yeah, how about my fucking privacy, or is that too much to ask for?”

“Wow, showing genuine concern about your happiness and welfare,” Patroclus deadpans. “What truly terrible people.”

“I already said they’re fine,” Achilles snaps. “Fake as fuck, though. Like I don’t know they chat shit about me behind my back. Also they took the lock off my door,” he flicks a finger towards the frame where there’s a rectangular indentation. “That was rude.”

“Why was there a lock on your door in the first place?” Patroclus frowns, considering it a kind of odd addition to a teenager’s bedroom.

“Duh, because I put it there.”

“Achilles!”

“What? So I don’t want some little kid banging in while I’m having a zoot,” Achilles raises his hands in self-defence, before adding: “Or a wank.”

“You really, _really_ should not be smoking in here,” Patroclus rubs his eyes tiredly, keeping the conversation firmly away from Achilles’ masturbatory habits. 

“What are you, my mum?” Achilles retorts before snapping his fingers. “Oh, wait, no. You know why? ‘Cos I’m in foster care.”

Patroclus tries, unsuccessfully, to hide his amusement but can’t beat the grin nudging the corner of his mouth. “Only for six weeks,” he says, adding, “Hopefully. Surely you can wait that long?”

“I’ve been waiting for you, haven’t I?” Achilles says, following it up with such an outrageous wink that Patroclus can’t suppress a bark of laughter. “Fun fact, I’m sixteen next week.”

“Good to know,” says Patroclus carelessly.

“I thought you might wanna.”

“I’ll be sure to update your fact file ahead of time.”

There’s silence while Achilles tosses a cricket ball and Patroclus flips idly through some of the books hidden beneath the mess on his desk. A lot of them are unexpectedly mature. As well as a battered copy of Roger Lancelyn Green’s _Tales of the Greek Heroes,_ there’s also _The Communist Manifesto_ , Chomsky’s _On Anarchy_ and Richard Dawkins’ _The God Delusion._ Patroclus picks up the last one, holding it aloft. “You know this is a piece of shit, right?”

Achilles glances at it. “Yeah,” he replies indifferently. “I thought it might help, you know. With some of the stuff I’ve got going on, ‘cos he’s a scientist and everything. But actually it’s just some boring old dude dragging religion for like…five thousand fucking pages. It’s longer than the Bible.”

“It’s not longer than the Bible,” says Patroclus mindlessly, the instinctive surge of anger coursing through his veins as he skims the pages.

“Duh, I know it’s not _really_ longer than the Bible,” Achilles rolls his eyes. “I’ve read the Bible.”

Patroclus’ head jerks up. “You’ve _read the Bible?!”_

“Yeah,” Achilles shrugs. “Most of it anyway. I skipped some of the food law parts.”

Patroclus releases a disbelieving gust of laughter, putting the book back on the desk. “You’re right about language being undemocratic you know,” he tells Achilles, remembering their earlier conversation. “There’s actually a phrase for it. ‘The economic order of language’. It’s why it took my parents so long to find work after moving here, because they didn’t speak standard English and had heavy accents.”

Achilles lets out a low whistle. “That’s fucked,” he says, and sounds like he means it. “Are they doing okay now?”

“Yeah. My mum’s an Engineer and my dad works with computers. You probably know more about them than he does.”

Achilles laughs. Pauses a long time before asking, “Do you get on with your parents?”

Patroclus squirms uncomfortably, hesitating before replying. “My mum, yeah. Things are a little…awkward, with my dad.”

Achilles takes his eye briefly off the tennis ball to glance at him, catching it anyway. “Because you like boys?”

Patroclus does a sort of non-committal, wobbly thing with his head. “There are kind of a lot of reasons,” he answers eventually. “Although that comes into it.”

“I sometimes wonder what my dad would think,” Achilles says matter-of-factly, and the qualifier isn’t explicit but Patroclus snaps to attention anyway.

“Have you never…” he tries, swallows, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. Tries again. “Have you ever talked about it with him?”

Achilles gives him a quizzical look. “I’ve never talked with him,” he replies bluntly. “He sends me a present every few months. I’ll probably get a hot tub or something from him next week.”

He doesn’t sound upset about it. Not emotionless or callously flat, just casual. Like it’s anything. If anything, he sounds a little amused. It’s this that reassures Patroclus enough to ask the question that’s been on his mind since the Judge gave the Order. “How do you feel about…you know. The idea of possibly going to live with him?”

Achilles sighs, closing his eyes briefly and for a moment Patroclus worries he’s said the wrong thing. But his voice when he replies is confidential. “Ok don’t go telling anyone,” he says. “But honestly…it wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.”

Patroclus stares at him, honestly stunned. “Seriously?”

“Like,” Achilles continues, still throwing the cricket ball while staring at the ceiling. “Obviously the worst thing in the world would be to leave my mum. But if that somehow wasn’t a part of it…I don’t know. I’d like to know him. And, like, he has shit loads of stuff. Money, I mean. Enough to send me to a real school, y’know, one that gives me a challenge. One where I might actually _learn_ something.”

“You’re bored,” says Patroclus, understanding.

“Yeah, I’m bored,” Achilles replies, throwing the ball once more into the air. “I’m going out of my _mind._ I think maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Why these things keep happening.”

He drops the cricket ball a few inches away from him, letting it bounce off his chest before turning on his side to blink at Patroclus. And Patroclus _hasn’t_ read the Bible but God help him, isn’t Achilles pretty. It’s easy to forget it sometimes, when he’s yelling or being a smartarse and there’s so much going on and everyday is another battle for custody, another family being torn apart by destitution and a broken system, every day another parent losing the fight for their child, another young person beaten by their partner or kicked out their home or thrown into prison until sometimes it’s easy to forget that there’s _anything_ lovely left in this world – anything as soft and simple as long lashes and light blond hair, and those wide, blue-green eyes, brimming with agelessness and innocence, eyes that have seen the horrors of a thousand lifetimes set into a face of such heart-breaking youth that Patroclus wants to _cry_ and My God, but aren’t you lovely is all he can think.

Achilles is watching him, his brow furrowed and lips slightly parted. His chest rises up and down from the mattress, a strand of yellow hair lifting from the corner of his mouth with his breath. Patroclus knows if he doesn’t speak now, he’s lost.

“So um,” he clears his throat, looks down at his hands. “You said you wanted to tell me something?”

Achilles’ eyes remain on his face for a few seconds that feel like eternity, disappointed like he’s accusing Patroclus of something. Finally he looks away, and the world goes back to normal. “Yeah, so, again don’t go around telling everyone about this,” he begins and aren’t those just words Patroclus loves to hear, “But I was on the Dark Web the other day.”

Patroclus gives himself a moment, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. “You. Were on. The Dark Web.”

“It’s really easy,” Achilles says dismissively. “I’ll show you sometime. But anyway, I was trying to find out more about, you know. My stuff,” he gestures vaguely to his running shoes, tucked neatly next to his chest of drawers and Patroclus, understanding he’s referring to the ability to perform physical feats that should be outside the realms of human possibility, nods for him to continue. “And it turns out there are other people you know, people like me who can do all sorts of crazy shit. And there’s this one guy…a Dr Silverberg or Saberstein…something like that…he’s a scientist who’s got like this blog going, and he says it’s all to do with some mutant allele shit…y’know, like in X-Men. And he’s started this program where goes around helping people, studying them so they can try to learn more and control it and everything…and I was thinking maybe, I don’t know. We could try and contact him, or something. See if he can help.”

His words fizzle out at the sight of the expression on Patroclus’ face, staring at him as if he really has gone out of his mind.

“Are you in _sane?!”_ Patroclus hisses, so fiercely that Achilles actually jumps a little. “Have you even…do you have the _slightest capacity_ to comprehend the pure, _mind-numbing stupidity_ of what you just said?”

“Christ, don’t go easy on me man, just tell me what you think,” Achilles mutters, hurt.

“You went somewhere on ‘ _the Dark Web’_ and found people who can do _‘all sorts of crazy shit’_ and _‘some guy with a blog’_ encouraging them to come forward and share stories of their super X-men powers…do you have, like, _any_ sense of self-preservation whatsoever? Or is life to you just one attempt after the other to try and get yourself in as much shit as possible?”

“Ok, fuck off,” Achilles snaps, roses flushing in his cheeks. “It was just an idea.”

He folds his arms over his chest, turning his face away in angry embarrassment. Patroclus lets out a heavy breath, running his hands over his face. There’s a long weighty silence, broken only by the sound of children’s voices downstairs. Finally, Patroclus gets to his feet.

“I should get going,” he says awkwardly.

Achilles still refuses to look at him, tilting his sharp chin. “Fine.”

“Don’t go on the Dark Web anymore.”

“You’re not my mum,” Achilles says again, but it lacks feeling.

Patroclus waits until he’s sure Achilles’ foster mum is occupied before heading downstairs, opening and shutting the door quietly behind him. It isn’t until an hour later, when he’s on the bus home and Dalham’s industrial skyline has long faded into the distance that he sees Briseis’ text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the filler :( i promise things will actually start to happen again next chapter
> 
> acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt translates to "mortal actions never deceive the gods"
> 
> Comments make my happyyyyyy. also not to beg, i know it's been a long while between updates but some sense that ppl are still reading this would be really helpful - i do wanna continue the story but it takes up a lot of time which i don't want to spend if there are only a few readers!


	12. Chapter 12

“So he just said ‘no’?” Patroclus demands for what feels like the hundredth time.

Briseis spreads her palms helplessly. “He might as well have done,” she replies, voice heavy with bitterness. “It wasn’t a very long conversation.”

“I don’t understand,” says Patroclus, a little pleadingly. “What reasoning did he give?”

Briseis sighs, running her hands through the sides of her curly hair, both elbows on the desk in front of her. “He didn’t,” she says at last. “I told him what was going on, that the Local Authority had initiated Care Proceedings against Thetis and are considering putting Achilles up for a long-term foster placement. Asked whether he’d like to be considered as a carer. There was a really long pause, I started to think he’d hung up. Then he just said, ‘I’m not sure that would be for the best, I’m not in the position to take on such a responsibility right now’ and when I tried to discuss the options with him he cut me off with, ‘Sorry, I’m a very busy man and I have another call. Please don’t bother me again’ and put the phone down.”

Patroclus swears savagely, anger boiling to the surface. “What…what the _fuck,”_ he spits and he’s fairly sure there aren’t words to cover what he’s feeling right now. “That fucking…that _arsehole!”_

Briseis nods, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, keep doing that for another three hours and you’ll be where I am now.”

Patroclus blows out a furious breath, raises his eyes to the ceiling as if in search of answers. The annex’s fluorescent lighting leaves rather a lot to be desired. Also there are water stains. “That man has more money than, like, several royal family members,” he states, not being able to think of any specifically of the top of his head but fairly sure in the assumption. “And he’s…what? Not in the _financial position??_ To look after a kid who, up to this point, has been living on roughly a hundred quid a week?”

“I mean…it was pretty obvious he was looking for any excuse he could find,” Briseis admits. “For the most part, I think people have forgotten about the scandal the sexual assault case caused when it first came out. But now, what with Weinstein and Me Too and everything else going on, having the literal evidence living in his house might bring up old ghosts. He struck me as being more concerned about his reputation than anything else.”

She sighs, nursing the cup of coffee in her hands without drinking it. Patroclus stares glumly into the inky depths of his own, wondering whether now or later would be a better time to fully embrace the void. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly surprised. It’s not like the corporate elite have given him much cause for admiration before now. But with Achilles’ admission that going to live with Liam wouldn’t be “the worst thing in the world” and the temptation of several prospects previously out of reach – a new school, athletics programs, food less rich in sodium – he can’t help but feel like yet another future has been robbed from him.

“So what do we do?” Briseis asks suddenly.

Patroclus jerks up to blink bemusedly at her. “Um…what?”

“About Pelides. Do you think we should tell Thetis and Achilles now or leave it to Juno?”  

“You do know I’m not actually the one with the degree in this relationship?”

“Yeah, but,” Briseis waves impatiently. “You know Achilles way better than I do. And don’t act like you don’t talk _all the time,”_ she adds warningly when Patroclus opens his mouth to object. “I know there are only, like, three people you text regularly, myself included, and all of a sudden your phone’s been going off like the Fourth of July.”

“Just say ‘Bonfire Night’,” Patroclus mutters. “People are always talking about ‘retaining the value of British culture’, it’s literally that easy.”

“Patrocluuuus,” Briseis whines brattishly and as _if_ she’s twenty-five and qualifying this year, seriously.

“Ok right, right,” Patroclus rubs his temples, trying to coax some sensical thought into his brain after the horrors of this afternoon. He thinks for a long time before saying, “Yeah, it should really be from us.”

Briseis looks surprised. “Really?” she asks interestedly. “You think he’ll take it that badly? I assumed he’d just sort of flatly refuse to live with him anyway, out of loyalty for his mum.”

“Yeah so did I,” Patroclus replies, thinking how much he can explain without revealing he was actually at Achilles’ house a couple of hours ago. “But uh…he told me recently that he wouldn’t mind. Like, strictly off the record, but yeah. Dad’s got money and we live in a material world, I guess. I think he recognises Liam’s able to offer him things Thetis can’t and as loyal as he is to her, it’s still gonna be a disappointment.”

“Shit,” Briseis whistles, looking if possible even more put out. “Ok then, that settles it. I’ll text Juno and tell her not to break it to them until we get a chance to talk.”

Patroclus nods absently, turning over the pages of the correspondence clip he’s paginating (divorce case. Private Law. The void is beckoning) when he spots an unfiled letter from an expert on his desk. He picks it up and peers at it. It’s a quote for a psychiatrist – not someone they’ve used before or Patroclus would recognise the name. Instead he lifts up the letter for Briseis’ attention.

“Hey Bri,” he says. “I’ve gotta quote from a Dr Henry Giles here.”

Briseis glances up briefly. “Oh yeah, that’s for the Nereida file,” she replies, returning to her keyboard. “The Local Authority finally got their shit together enough to arrange a psychiatric assessment for Thetis and Achilles.”

“Oh cool,” says Patroclus, hole-punching the page and reaching for the clip. “When for?”

“Wednesday,” answers Briseis, checking her diary. “You can sit in, if you like. We’re doing it here.”

“I do like,” Patroclus replies. He’s never witnessed a psychiatric assessment of a client before. And if he’s being honest, he’s more than a little curious to see what terms they come up with to describe Achilles. He attaches the page to the file and quickly skims through the rest of the correspondence. Most of it is in regards to Thetis: reference letters from her GP, enrolment in the Elysium program, consent to a parenting course. Right at the back is the Non-Molestation Order against Darren. “How’s Thetis doing with the courses?”

“Pretty good,” Briseis replies. “I mean, she’s started them all at least, which is more than I can say for most clients. Call me optimistic, but I think she does genuinely want to change.”

Patroclus hums in agreement without saying what he’s thinking – which is that a lot of clients seem to genuinely want to change, but also genuinely like heroin more.

The afternoon passes pretty quickly. Patroclus is sent to take conference notes by another solicitor for a parent who seems to think Dr Pepper counts as a full meal for a seven-year-old. By the time he gets back it’s nearly five o’clock and he’s halfway through typing up his attendance note when the phone rings.

Briseis picks it up. _“Akhaion Solicitors,_ Briseis speaking. Oh hi Juno,” she rolls her eyes significantly at Patroclus who smirks. “What’s up?”

A couple of years ago, Patroclus’ mother went through this massive candle-making phase. Every day Patroclus would come home from school and find her standing over these massive pots on the stove, the smell of burning petroleum and indistinguishable scents hanging thick in the air. He remembers glancing into the pots and grimacing at the grotesque forms twisting into something incomprehensible, where once they had been wax figurines, or Crayolas.

That’s kind of what Briseis’ expression looks like now.

“You _what?!”_ she yells and Patroclus actually jumps a little in his seat. “You told them? After I specifically told you not to? Don’t give me that _bullshit,_ Juno, you _have your receipts on._ I can literally see that you read my message. So what? You deliberately ignored me?”

Patroclus watches, eyes wide with apprehension as Briseis seethes, gritting her teeth to keep from cutting through Juno’s excuse.

“I don’t give a _shit_ about your MA in Child Psychology!” she snaps when the effort proves too much. “Did it ever occur to you _once_ that as his lawyers we might have greater insight into how our clients might deal with this information?” There’s a raised voice on the other line, so shrill that Patroclus makes out the words before Briseis’ repeats them. “You’re not a bloody ‘maternal figure’! You’re a threat! And if you pulled your head out of your own arse for three seconds you might see that!”

“Briseis,” Patroclus says warningly because oh my God, oh my God, this is _not_ how you talk to social workers oh my God Briseis is going to be fired if she doesn’t reign it in.

“Where is he now?” Briseis demands, ignoring Patroclus. “Has anyone called the police?”

“What’s going on?” Patroclus asks as Briseis begins stuffing things into her handbag.

“Alright, try to hold off until I get there,” Briseis speaks into the receiver, half-rising out of her chair. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

She puts the phone down, yanking on her coat. “Juno told Achilles that his dad doesn’t want him,” she tells him abruptly. “Turns out you were right. He did _not_ take it well. At the moment he’s bent on destroying everything in his foster parent’s garage.”

“Jesus,” Patroclus leaps to his feet, grabbing his coat. “I’m coming with you.”

Briseis looks about to respond in the negative but stops herself at the fiery expression on Patroclus’ face. Instead she just jerks her head resignedly and together they rush out the office before anyone can ask where they’re going.

Later, if anyone were to ask Patroclus what the drive to the foster-home was like he couldn’t tell them, on account of largely having blocked it as a trauma. While being in Briseis’ car tempts fate on a good day, all traffic laws and etiquette seem to fly out the window as Briseis speeds towards the placement, occasionally screaming retaliation at hurdlers of abuse and narrowly avoiding bends and lampposts. Patroclus grips the sides of his seat for dear life, however, any fear he’s feeling for himself is entirely overridden by his worry for Achilles. He has already tried texting him to no avail and now it’s costing every effort to keep calm in the knowledge of what he’s truly capable of given the right motivation. The right motivation = hurt, confusion, and unadulterated rage. 

“Oh my God,” Briseis breathes upon catching first sight of the house.

The garage windows are shattered, glass littering the floor and the fringes of the roadside. The one positive thing it’s possible to say is that at least no car had been inside at the time, as everything else has been heaped and thrown onto the pavement; Patroclus makes out the remains of a lawnmower, twisted into a monstrous metallic mess, as well as several other pieces of less decipherable equipment. The family are standing outside in a huddle, several children crying and gripping their foster parents who stand with their arms clutched around their bodies, as if in a daze. As Briseis and Patroclus climb out the car and draw nearer, the strong smell of petrol suddenly hits his nose.

“Fuck,” Briseis breathes, turning her head against the smell. “Don’t light any cigarettes.”

“Where is he?” Patroclus asks, scanning the area for a sign of Achilles.

Briseis marches straight up to Juno, currently on the phone. She hangs up at the sight of Briseis coming towards her, mouth drawing thinner than a wrinkled date. “What happened?” Briseis demands. The sound of a police car drawing up momentarily distracts her attention and she whips her head back furiously. “You _called them?!”_

 _“I_ didn’t,” Juno snarls. “The foster parents did. And, considering he was threatening to burn the garage down, I can’t say I can find it within myself to blame them.”

“Where is he now?”

“We don’t know,” Juno replies tightly. “As soon as he realised the police were coming, he ran off. I’ve already sent people out looking for him.”

Briseis swears violently, spinning around when Patroclus taps her arm urgently. “We should add ourselves to that list of people.”

“Clearly we’ll have to,” Briseis retorts, eyes fixed on Juno. “If only to save this entire situation from sheer incompetence.”

“Now you listen here madam,” Juno seethes. “I will put up with language like that on the phone. But if you continue to speak to me in this manner then I _will_ make an official complaint to your superior.”

“Wow, look at that. Finally some proactivity,” Briseis says sarcastically, already pulling out her phone. “Turns out social workers do know how to do their jobs when it comes to looking out for their own skins.” Patroclus watches her fire off a quick text to Mene letting him know what’s happening before slipping her phone back in her pocket. “Did he say anything before taking off?”

“Not much,” Juno replies, voice clipped. “Apart from some rather choice words directed at myself. Also something that sounded like ‘I need to get out of my skin’, whatever nonsense that means.”

“Right,” said Briseis tartly. “You stay here, look after the family and see if he comes back. I take it you’ve got somebody on his mum’s house? We’ll have a look around other possible places he could be. Keep your phone on you.”

She marches back to the car before Juno can get out another word, not stopping to buckle herself back in before taking off.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Patroclus tells her.

She ignores him. “So,” she breathes, the tension evident. “Any ideas?”

Patroclus considers. “I doubt he’ll have gone far,” he says. “Trying to burn down the garage instead of taking off immediately. That’s a very public display. Attention seeking. I think he wants people to chase him.”

Briseis inclines her head. “Which means he wants people to find him,” she gathers. “So we’re looking for somewhere nearby. Somewhere obvious.”

Patroclus hums in agreement, gazing out the window as he wracks his brains. “‘I need to get out of my skin’,” he repeats softly to himself. “He wants to break out, to be more than he is ordinarily. Okay so…running, probably.” He looks back at Briseis. “Where’s the nearest track from here?”

“Uh…probably the university?” Briseis glances at him quizzically.

Patroclus nods. “Head there.”

Briseis makes a sharp turn and Patroclus grits his teeth as they hurtle towards the city campus. The university isn’t far from the centre of town, one of the nicer buildings in Dalham in that it doesn’t look like it used to be a factory of recently migrated employees making knock off designer clothing. Upon entering the athletics’ car park Briseis lets Patroclus out before driving off to find a meter. Straight away Patroclus heads in the direction of the track, despite not being a runner himself unable to remember ever moving faster.

He spots Achilles almost immediately, a flash of blond hair catching gold in the light against the russet of the track. Rather than pelting his way round the circuit he stands poised at the starting line, preparing to sprint. Patroclus stumbles, pulse faltering for a moment as he watches. Achilles’ body is bent, taut as a bowstring, a promise of restrained power ready to snap. And it does. The tips of his fingers and toes leave the ground and he’s sprinting, arms pumping with flawless control so that Patroclus can see the tendons beneath the skin shift, like the gears of some perfect machine. It’s barely for a moment because within the space that it takes to marvel at the precision of him he’s reached the 100m finish line, another second and he’s returned to the top.

Patroclus shakes himself, blinking as if emerging from gloom into sudden daylight. He raises his hands to the sides of his mouth and shouts: “Achilles!”

Achilles doesn’t look up, although his head twitches as proof that he’s heard him. Huffing in frustration, Patroclus moves round to the main gate. It’s locked. Swearing, Patroclus scales the high fence around it, resignation sinking in as he realises he has no other choice.

“You know,” he calls out as he lifts one foot into the gap between the metal wire. “You’re a real shit for making me do this.”

“Leave me alone,” Achilles yells back.

Patroclus shakes his head. “Can’t do that,” he replies, gripping the cable above him and hauling himself up. “And I already started climbing, so.”

After disentangling his jeans from getting caught in several places he manages to get over the top. He jumps down, landing clumsily and flinging his hands out just in time.

“Ow,” he winces, looking down at his grazed palms. “Ok, now I’m literally bleeding for you. Fyi, when I took this job I really thought it would mean a lot less field work.” He grins. “Get it? Cos we’re on a track and field?” _Wow, really I am wasted here._

Achilles however does not seem to agree, looking stonily at Patroclus and entirely unamused. “I didn’t ask you to come after me.”

“Right, because attempting to burn down a garage is so obviously not at all a cry for help,” Patroclus rolls his eyes. “I really hope you’d let me know if you were ever angry, master of subtlety and discretion that you are.”

“Shut up!” Achilles shouts. “Just leave me alone, all of you stay the fuck away from me!”

“Achilles look,” Patroclus changes his tone abruptly, making hesitant steps towards Achilles whose arms are quivering as though he would quite like to be holding a brick right now. “I get that you’re upset, okay, I get it, and I’m sorry-”

“‘Sorry’, what are you sorry for?” Achilles taunts horribly. “What the fuck do you think you get? I’m sick of it, all you people thinking you fucking know me. You _don’t_ know me, you don’t get it, none of you do-”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Patroclus says hastily, drawing nearer before Achilles can start running again. “I don’t know how it feels to be you…I never will. But I want to understand, and I _am_ sorry. Please Achilles, just…just come back with me. It’ll be fine, nothing bad will happen-”

“How can you say that?” Achilles screams and there are tears running down his face. “How can you say nothing bad will happen when my whole life has been nothing but bad…nothing bad ever stops…”

He falls to his knees, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Quick as he can move, Patroclus grabs him. At once Achilles struggles, pushing and kicking like he’s a wild thing caught in a trap. “Let go!” he fights, clawing at Patroclus’ arm. “Fucking let go of me!”

“No,” Patroclus says, instead tightening his grip. Because honestly, in his own words Achilles could take a thirty-eight year old ex-soldier with his hands tied behind his back, and Patroclus is an eighteen year old ex-chess champion so it’s a fair assumption there’s a reason he’s not already laying on the ground with his head caved in.

Achilles continues to struggle for a brief moment before suddenly collapsing, body going limp as if somebody had let all the air out. Patroclus holds him close, sliding his hands through his long hair and murmuring “It’ll be okay”s into the back of his head. Achilles lets his forehead drop against Patroclus’ arm, breathing heavily and after a while Patroclus feels the splash of tears against his skin.

They’re still sitting like that when Briseis finds them. Achilles’ shaking has finally subsided, now he’s just crying quietly into Patroclus’ clothes, holding onto him like he’s the last solid thing. Patroclus mouths an “It’s fine” at Briseis who gives him the thumbs up and reaches for her phone.

“Juno hi,” she speaks abruptly. “We’ve found him. Yeah, the university running track. _On no circumstances come with the police,_ you’ve got that? Ok _._ See you in five.”

“Do you want anyone?” Patroclus whispers. “Demi? Your mum?”

Achilles shakes his head, wipes his face with Patroclus’ shirt which somehow manages to be gross and hopelessly cute at the same time. “Just you,” he murmurs.

And Patroclus’ heart breaks.

*

“I want to be taken off the Nereida case,” Patroclus tells Briseis, coming into work on Wednesday morning.

Briseis takes a second from the contact notes she’s reading to frown bemusedly at Patroclus. “What are you on about?”

“It’s too much,” Patroclus continues, dropping his bag and falling into his chair. He spreads his palms so that she knows he’s serious. “I’m done with it.”

Briseis snorts. “Okay, funny guy,” she says, returning to her notes. “I’m sorry I called you boring, Rulesmith. You’re actually incredibly amusing.”

“I’m not kidding,” Patroclus insists. “I can’t do it anymore. It’s getting me down.”

Briseis raises an eyebrow, lowering the notes again to peer at him. “It’s getting you down?” she repeats skeptically. “Patroclus…you had a Court hearing for a literal paedophile last week, and visited a wife-beater in prison the week before. And _this_ is the case that’s getting you down?”

“I just feel,” says Patroclus carefully. “That I’m a little…compromised. With this one.”

 The raised eyebrow intensifies, Briseis’ scepticism tinged with amusement. “Okay,” she says slowly, clearly trying not to come off as condescending. “You…er…do know that you’re not actually a lawyer yet, right? Nothing you do can actually be classified as a conflict.”

“I mean compromised _in myself,”_ Patroclus retorts, letting out a half-groan-half-sigh of impatience. “I don’t feel…right…about it. Me and Achilles…he depends on me for a lot. And I don’t know if I’m up to the task, I can’t be his therapist and his solicitor’s assistant and his friend all at the same time, I’m not…I’m not _qualified,_ Jesus _._ Plus it’s not appropriate, it totally transgresses professionalism and all the codes of conduct…and what if I fuck up? Somehow make things even worse for him by giving shitty advice or just…saying something I shouldn’t have…I’m not an expert, I don’t know how people’s brains work, especially not people like _him_ …anyway, I’ve had it. It’s too much stress, take me off.”

He finishes, falling back in his chair and feeling a little winded. Briseis stares at him, taken aback as her brain struggles to comprehend the rush of words. Finally she shakes her head, as if hoping to get rid herself of the memory of the conversation, waving her hand dismissively. “No.”

Patroclus frowns. “‘No’ what do you mean ‘no’?”

“I mean ‘no, that’s not going to happen’,” Briseis responds, reaching calmly for a highlighter. “You’re way too close to this now. It would be like cutting the umbilical cord before the baby’s ready to come out.”

“You really have not a clue how biology works, do you?”

“This family needs you Patroclus,” Briseis ignores him, fixing him with a serious look. “More importantly, I need you. You’re the only one Achilles trusts, the only one who can appreciate how he thinks, what he’s going to do. We would never have found him if it wasn’t for you, and God knows what would have happened then. He could have seriously hurt someone, or himself.”

Patroclus says nothing, unwilling to admit the truth in this.  

“Anyway,” Briseis continues, running the highlighter along the page and snapping on the lid. “You don’t need to worry about being his therapist, because he’s meeting him today.”

Patroclus frowns, confused. “What?”

“The psychiatric assessment, remember?” Briseis prompts him, glancing at her watch. “They should all be arriving in about five minutes.”

“You really think it’s a good idea for Achilles to have his head tested,” Patroclus deadpans. “Within three days of an arson-flavoured emotional breakdown.”

Briseis shrugs. “Schedule is as schedule does,” she replies. “Besides, I spoke to Demi on the phone earlier and he’s doing much better now. Right back to his chirpy, old, probably-sociopathic self.”

A knock on the annex door puts a pin in the conversation. Briseis and Patroclus look up to see Mene’s large form standing before them, nervous and uncomfortable like an elephant lost in the Arctic. There’s no train mug in his large hands. Somehow that makes the situation even more ominous.

“Briseis,” he speaks, licking his lips nervously and _my God, is the man really sweating? Gross._ “Can I have a word?”

“Uh…sure,” Briseis glances at Patroclus uncertainly before getting to her feet. “Keep an eye on the phone in case reception calls.”

“Will do,” Patroclus respons, eyes following them out the room. He’s distracted, however, by his own phone vibrating; reaching into his pocket he finds it’s with a message from Achilles.

_> Achilles: whos excited 2 get ther head shrunk?_

_> clue: meeee_

Patroclus smiles despite himself, and then instantly feels bad about it.

_> Patroclus: I see you’re feeling better._

_> Achilles: idk what ur talking about. nothing but sunshine and rainbows for daaays_

_> Patroclus: Right. And I take it your foster family are seeing things the same way?_

_> Achilles: lol no. i got kicked out of there. deMi VaNmETeR found me a new place _

_> real talk tho demi is cool. i like her_

_> she bought me chips and ice cream after the whole thing so i guess i can forgive her 4 being a Bloody Yank _

_> Patroclus: Good to know your basis for friendships is so conditional._

_> Achilles: wot does that mean_

_> Patroclus: When your relationships are valued on what you can get out of them._

_> Achilles: thats just common sense _

_> watever she can stay. and she talked my old fosterfucks out of pressing charges which was nice_

_> i only broke stuff which insurance would cover anyway_

_> Patroclus: For real? Didn’t know you took such precautions when planning to burn down a building._

_> Achilles: hell ya. not my first time_

_> speaking of first times im coming up 2 ur office now so wear sth pretty ;)_

At that moment Briseis re-enters, and Patroclus is just about to show his phone as proof he should be taken off the case when he catches sight of her expression.

“What happened?” he falters.

“Juno made the complaint,” Briseis replies bitterly. “If it happens again, or if there’s another incident like last time Mene says he’ll have to suspend me.”

As bad as it is, Patroclus actually breathes out a sigh of relief. “So you’re not suspended?”

“Not yet,” says Briseis irritably. “But only because he wants to get in my pants.”

The phone rings from reception. Briseis’ picks it up, answering curtly before grabbing her notepad. “The shrink’s here. Get your shit.”

They head downstairs to reception, a man Patroclus takes to be the psychiatrist sitting cross-legged in the waiting area. He’s handsome and clean-cut, with a pleasant, open face and intelligent blue eyes behind a pair of steel-framed glasses. He smiles as they approach, straightening the lapels of his houndstooth jacket before reaching to shake Briseis’ hand.

“Ms Yilmaz, I assume?” he greets her amiably. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Dr Giles, hi,” Briseis smiles back and it might just be his imagination, but Patroclus thinks he sees some colour creep into her cheeks. “Thanks for making it at such short notice. And please, call me Briseis.”

“Pleasure,” Giles inclines his head. “It was no trouble. I do much less public work for the hospitals nowadays and most of my clients are at work, so I had a free schedule.”

The sound of the automatic door sliding signifies the arrival of Thetis and Achilles. There is no trace of the anguished, distraught figure Patroclus had held tightly on the tarmac of the running track; rather Achilles salutes them cheerfully, swaggering into the waiting room with his hands in his pockets, and the usual anarchic glint in his eye.

“And this must be the patient,” Giles says good-naturedly.

Achilles stops in front of him, taking everything in from his beaten brown shoes to his black turtleneck.

“Dr Giles,” Briseis steps in, before he has a chance to say anything offensive. “Meet Achilles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter, sorry about that. i feel like I have a lot less stamina that i used to...next one will hopefully be a bit longer!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of child sexual abuse. Please read with care!

“So Achilles,” Dr Giles settles back comfortably into the armchair, crossing one leg over the other. “Have you ever had a psych eval before?”

Immediately an eyebrow quirks up. “A ‘psych eval’?” he parrots, only barely keeping a reign on his amusement.

“Apologies,” Dr Giles cringes at himself. “Having come into its own in the 19th century as a field dominated by white Western men to combat female emancipation, psychology isn’t the hippest of subjects. Do let me know if I say anything out of line.”

“Think it’s a little late for that bro,” Achilles leans back in his chair, his arms around the back of his head. “What’s with the turtle-neck? Or did you make a conscious decision to look like a kids’ TV presenter from the 70s?”

Dr Giles smiles, grey eyes twinkling with amusement behind his wireframes. “I should let you know that your assessment started the moment you walked into this room,” he tells Achilles.

Achilles shrugs, unbothered. “So what?” he asks. “I know you’re just going to write me off as an attention-seeking sociopath anyway, whose only hope of not turning out an axe murder is like, a million sessions of intensive therapy which you and I both know I’m not gonna do, so. Don’t really see what the point is, tbh.”

“So you haven’t had an evaluation before,” Giles nods his understanding. “That’s good to know. Well Achilles, you’ll be happy to know that I’m not planning to write you off as anything. I don’t really like to use words like ‘sociopath’ – I find them extremely reductive, and quite lazy. We’re going to start with what we call a cognitive assessment, which is going to test your intellectual ability.”

“Oh,” Achilles straightens up, suddenly interested. “Okay.”

“This is what we call the Weschler Intelligence test. It’s separated into five main scores: Verbal and Nonverbal Comprehension, General Ability, Fluid Reasoning, Working Memory and Processing Speed. It will look at the way your mind makes connections and how quickly, and basically the way that you think. Afterwards I’ll ask you a few more personal questions about your history and background, and finally we’ll move onto the Personality Assessment which picks up on different traits to determine whether you have any classifiable personality disorders.”

Dr Giles flicks his biro at Briseis and Patroclus sitting at the back of the room. Thetis has gone to the supermarket, likely not wanting to stick around while her son relates the tragic nightmare that is his childhood which like, fair enough. “Are you alright for them to be present?”

Achilles glances behind him at Patroclus, who waves awkwardly. “They’re fine,” Achilles replies dismissively. “Anyway, I perform better when I have an audience.”

Dr Giles smiles indulgently. “Great to see there are no problems with confidence,” he inclines his head. “Alright then. Shall we get started with the Non-Verbal reasoning?”

Achilles nods. “Hit me.”

“Take a look at these boxes. You see the smaller black boxes inside, and the letters A, B, C and D underneath. Which comes next in the sequence?”

The cognitive assessment takes about an hour, during which Dr Giles places an assortment of coloured shapes, numbers and patterns in front of Achilles, asking him to determine a pattern, or reads out a large chunk of text for him to determine its truth. Achilles checks the answers boredly, however the illusion of indifference isn’t quite enough to hide the deliberation with which he makes his decision, the slight puckering of his brow betraying a trill of nervous anticipation, a desire to do well. It doesn’t matter how many times he rolls his eyes or huffs “this is stupid”, Patroclus can see that he cares about this. After all, his ego is on the line.

When the test finishes, Giles turns to Briseis and Patroclus. “I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave now,” he tells them apologetically. “This part of the assessment may be susceptible to influence and in any case, there will likely be some private, sensitive information coming up.”

“Understood,” says Briseis, nudging Patroclus to his feet. “Um…can I get you anything in the meantime? A cup of tea? Coffee?”

“I’m splendid, thank you,” Giles smiles warmly, causing Briseis’ cheeks to heat up, and she mutters something incomprehensible on their way out.

Patroclus closes the door carefully behind him and follows Briseis back into the waiting room before rounding on her. “Behave yourself,” he chastises.

“What?” Briseis blinks at him innocently, or what would be innocently if her face wasn’t the same colour as her lipstick right now.

“You are flirting with him.”

“I’m not flirting, I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee, what’s wrong with-”

“You didn’t ask if he wanted a cup of coffee. You asked,” Patroclus puts his hands behind his back, crossing his legs and batting his eyelashes like he’s a Dutch milkmaid on Eurovision. “Can I get you anything?” Bat bat. “Tea?” Drops pencil. “Coffee?” Bends to pick it up.

“Ew gross,” Briseis wrinkles her nose, rolling her eyes. “Fine, he’s cute, alright? And intelligent and good-looking and well-dressed with a decent job that he’s clearly successful at. Sue me for my interest.”

“I’m not suing you,” says Patroclus. “I just wanted you to admit it out loud.”

“Duuude,” Briseis whines, collapsing into one of the sad sagging blue chairs in the waiting room. “The last Tinder date I went on was over three months ago. And it sucked.”

“Was that the one with the guy in an open relationship who cried about his girlfriend the entire time?” asks Patroclus. “Or the novel-writing fascist who described Canary Warf as the pinnacle of civilisation?”

“The novel-writing fascist,” Briseis confirms. “I still have his business card. Anyway, point is I’m tired of dating trashy dudes my age. I need a grown-up, Patroclus. Someone with life savings. And a guaranteed pension.”

“Hot.”

“Right?” Briseis nods enthusiastically. “So hot.”

Patroclus shrugs. “So just ask him out.”

Briseis makes a sceptical noise at the back of her throat, turning a doubtful look at Patroclus. “Why not?” he persists. “You’re young, attractive, ambitious and poor. He’s old, boring, comfortable and drawing near his sell-by date. You clearly compliment each other.”

“Like Alexander Hamilton,” says Briseis dreamily. “Maybe he can be my Washington.”

“What? No. Ew,” Patroclus frowns at her. “Nothing…at all like that. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Briseis looks at him apologetically. “It’s been a while,” she admits. “And AO3 is the only site the Court Wifi lets me access.”

Before Patroclus can summon up the strength to respond to that, he is saved by the sound of the front door opening. Thetis reappears, looking harried. Her mouth is pinched into a tight, firm line, clearly working to keep composure over the stress twitching beneath the surface. She dumps her shopping in the corner and takes one of the seats, chewing anxiously at her fingernails while her eyes flash fearfully around the room like a cornered animal. It’s kind of a pitiful sight and Patroclus is glad of the excuse to look away when Achilles and Giles finally emerge from consultation.

“You did brilliantly,” Giles is assuring Achilles, in the docile tone of one who has said the same to all his patients. “You can see your results after I send them to your solicitor.”

“Do I get a lollypop?” asks Achilles, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Not gonna lie, that was kind of a make or break.”

“But you’ve already done the test,” Giles frowns bemusedly.

Achilles swears. Foiled.

“Ready when you are Thetis,” Giles tells her kindly.

Thetis starts when she hears her name, already wild eyes widening. Her bottom lip trembles slightly as she gets to her feet  but within the space of a blink her face is expressionless and stony once again. She flicks her finger at Achilles. “Go play outside.”

“I’m not five,” Achilles tells her but makes for the door anyway, propelled as always by the unrestrained kinetic energy rushing through him. “Patroclus, come with me.”

Patroclus glances questioningly at Briseis who nods, and Patroclus follows Achilles out the door.

Once outside, Achilles shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and kicks listlessly at the ground. Patroclus watches him uncertainly, wanting to ask how it went but wary of pushing where he’s not wanted. Achilles doesn’t look by any means distressed, still there’s definitely an edge to his expression that wasn’t there when he came, as well as a touch of violence to the way he scuffs at the concrete. Patroclus thinks maybe he’s daring him to ask though, because he glances up and gives Patroclus a challenging look from underneath his lashes and it’s really, really hard not to respond to that.

“Listen,” says Patroclus, repressing the squirm of discomfort in the pit of his stomach. “Are you hungry?”

Achilles looks up at him, frowning quizzically. “Uh yeah, I guess,” he answers with an edge of suspicion. “I mean, I could eat.”

Patroclus jerks his head in the direction of town. Achilles’ large green eyes stretch even wider with surprise, an incredulous, joyful grin uncurling across his face as he hurries to keep up with Patroclus’ purposeful stride. It’s enough to assuage the last of the guilt Patroclus knows he should be feeling, but quite honestly isn’t. Whatever, it’s a goddamn sandwich. He entered a confidential foster placement unauthorised last week, which even more recently, only just narrowly escaped being burnt down. If the universe wants to punish him for this then the universe is a petty bitch.

He buys Achilles his Chicken Legend, ignoring the twinge of conscience at paying dues to a temple of carnivorous evil, and a coffee for himself. They sit on the benches outside the shops, munching and sipping in silence for a while, peaceful and content to people watch. Achilles has a soft, vaguely interested look on his face as he watches families walk past. Parents with their hands on each other’s arms, kids racing down the street or else swinging happily between them. It’s the look of someone feeling some distant affection for people he has never known, like gazing back with a fond smile at some favourite historical figure, or a deceased celebrity.

“It’s really weird to think sometimes that there are families which are normal,” Achilles speaks suddenly, plucking at a loose thread of lettuce. “Where shit doesn’t happen to them on a daily basis.”

“You are normal,” Patroclus says automatically, because it seems like the sort of thing to say in these situations even if it’s entirely untrue.

Achilles looks up at him, bored and unimpressed. “Dude,” he impresses. “I’m just about the furthest away from normal. In any meaning of the world.”

Ok, so he has a point. Biologically speaking.

Stupid biology.

“Alright, so you’re not exactly what most scientists would classify as typical,” Patroclus admits. “But that’s not a bad thing. You’re extraordinary, superhuman. A lot of people would kill for that…and have done. Historically.” _Wow. Compare him to the eugenicist agenda. Way to boost a guy’s self-esteem._

“Ok, but what if it’s not to do with my genes or whatever?” Achilles queries. “What if it’s…what d’you call it. Environmental factors. Other stuff.”

Patroclus frowns non-comprehendingly. “What other stuff?”

“You know…” Achilles wobbles his head, ambiguously but significantly. “Family stuff. Childhood stuff. Psychological assessment stuff.”

“Oh,” says Patroclus. “That stuff.” He takes a sip of coffee and swallows too quickly, burning his throat.

There’s a long and, for Patroclus at least, very awkward silence. Achilles continues to chew his sandwich pensively, a thin line appearing between his eyebrows as if thinking hard about something. Meanwhile Patroclus’ pulse is loud in his eardrums, brain whirring as he tries to think of any way he could possible bring this up without Achilles retreating immediately, or lashing out. Surely the fact that he’s said this much is proof that he wants to talk about it, but Patroclus has never known the correct way to approach this subject, even with someone who isn’t in Care. The words, when he finally forces them out, are thick and clumsy on his tongue, and he finds that he stumbles.

“Hey,” he tries. “You know…you don’t just have to talk to a psychologist. If you wanna tell me about that kind of stuff then you can. I’m here for you.”

Achilles smiles at him crookedly. It’s a little pitying, patronising even. Not at all like he’s speaking to someone three years older than himself. “Thanks, but you don’t wanna hear it,” he replies casually. “You won’t be able to take it.”

Patroclus pulls a mock-wounded expression. “I can take it.”

“No, you can’t,” Achilles shakes his head decisively. “You’re too sensitive.”

Scrap mock-wounded. Patroclus crosses his arms and glares resentfully at Achilles, in a robust, manly way that totally doesn’t entirely prove his point. Achilles laughs and elbows him. “‘It’s not a bad thing’,” he echoes teasingly. “Come on, man. You are. But it’s nice. It’s what I like about you.”

Patroclus raises his eyebrows at that, insides a little warm despite himself. “Yeah?”

Achilles rolls his eyes again. “What, the fact that you’re not fake, like literally every other person involved in this, and actually care about other people?” he raises his eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess I like that.”

“If you know I’m not fake, then you should know you can talk to me.”

“Uh, Jesus,” Achilles lifts his gaze to the heavens, as if seeking celestial aid. “Why do you wanna know about that anyway? Like yeah, I could go into detail about every shitty experience with my mum’s boyfriends, and sexual abuse since the age of twelve, but why would I? It’s not a fun topic. It’s not even interesting. It’s just something that happened.”

“But it…it shouldn’t have happened,” Patroclus impresses, and shit, fuck, there are literal tears in his eyes. “People have failed you.”

“See, I told you you’d get sensitive,” Achilles wags his sandwich reprimandingly at him. “Shit happens and you can’t change it. I’m ok with that. But what I’m less ok with is if it’s…I don’t know. If all this stuff is changing me. If it’s had like, a physical affect that’s turning me into something…” he wrinkles his nose. Says the words quietly, like he’s afraid of them. “Not normal.”

Patroclus shakes his head fiercely, almost sending his coffee leaping anywhere. “I…no,” he says. “That’s not…that won’t be how it works.”

“Don’t act like you have any idea how it works,” Achilles says contemptuously. “I’m the one who’s been living with it. Just because you probably took all your GCSEs.”

“All As and A*s actually,” Patroclus replies, because apparently being encouraged to take unnecessary pride in his academic achievements has reached the status of compulsion now. “Except for one B in Maths, which we don’t talk about.”

“Aww,” Achilles shoves out his bottom lip in a display of mock-sympathy. “Did you not get a certificate?”

“I didn’t actually,” Patroclus admits. “I just missed out. My mum and dad were furious with the school. They haggled for days trying to get it remarked.”

“Sounds like a traumatic experience.”

“It was. Scarring.”

“Maybe you should see someone.”

“Maybe.”

They grin at each other, holding composure for a few seconds before Achilles bursts out laughing, unable to take it any longer. Patroclus watches him, still smiling despite the amusement being tinged with sadness.

“I suppose we had pretty different lives growing up,” he says after a while, when Achilles’ laughter has died down to hiccoughs.

“Oh, I dunno,” Achilles leans back, polishing off his sandwich and chucking the wrapper in the bin. “Didn’t you live through that big war?”

And despite the not insignificant effect that particular “big war” had on Patroclus’ life, it actually takes him a second to work out what Achilles is talking about. “You mean…the Sri Lankan Civil War?”

The condescending look returns. “I don’t mean Vietnam.”

“How do you know about the Civil War?”

“Bro, I’m in care, not fucking prison,” he rolls his eyes again. “I have access to the Internet. I looked it up after you said where you were from. It lasted a really long time, like thirty years.”

“Yeah,” Patroclus scratches the back of his neck ruefully, his shame for underestimating Achilles’ desire to know more about Sri Lanka not entirely enough to overpower his surprise that he went out of his way to do so. “I don’t remember that much. I was pretty young at the time.”

“You must remember some,” Achilles insists and Patroclus takes a moment to remind himself that Achilles is a kid who probably still considers war as something abstract and exciting and not a very real thing which almost has him snarling out a reply.

“There’s probably a good reason I don’t remember most of it,” he says carefully.

Achilles blinks, understanding dawning across his face and breaking out in a faint blush across his cheeks.

“Oh,” he says, a little bashfully. “Yeah, fair enough.” A beat. “The brain is cool like that, I guess. How it tried to protect you, and all.” He pauses before tagging on, “Bless it.”

Patroclus laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “The brain is pretty cool.”

They stay out a little longer. Unusually, Achilles doesn’t seem to want to talk very much apart from the odd throw away comment or observation people on the street. Mostly he seems contemplative, philosophical even, and that’s just fine by Patroclus. After a while he glances at his watch. As always time has started to run away from them, and they’ve been gone for a little longer than he had intended. “We should probably head back,” he tells Achilles. “Your mum will be done soon.”

Achilles pulls a face. “She’ll be mardy as fuck when it’s over,” he says bitterly. “We’re supposed to do contact today.”

“How’s that going, by the way?”

Achilles shrugs. “Alright,” he says, then considers. “Not that good, actually. Mostly we just shout at each other and then she cries.” He huffs out frustratedly. “They should give us longer than three hours a week. She misses half of it trying to find the Contact Centre, which is depressing as fuck by the way. Seriously, kids shouldn’t even be allowed in there.”

Patroclus would tell him off for being ungracious, but he has been to the Contact Centre and Achilles is not wrong. Honestly, with its chewed-up colouring books and cobwebby Lego the place should carry its own health warning.

They set off back to the office. By the time they get there Thetis is done; she barely spares either Briseis or Patroclus a glance before whisking out, grabbing Achilles roughly by the hand. He just has time to wave a goodbye at Patroclus before they’re vanishing off down the road. Taken aback, Patroclus’ gaze swivels from the both of them to the doorway of the consultation room, where Dr Giles is standing with his arms crossed over his chest and a sympathetic look on his face which he turns on Briseis.

“Might I have a word?” he inquires.

“Of course,” Briseis jumps up, beckoning at Patroclus.

The two of them follow Giles into the consultation room. He checks the door is firmly shut before turning round to address them. Briseis breaks the ice first.

“How was she?” she asks tentatively.

Giles makes an ambiguous gesture. “I think she took to the assessment about as well as you’d anticipated,” he replies. “She was a difficult subject, and not very forthcoming. She didn’t give me very much to work with, but I think it’s fairly accurate to say that she’s an Avoidant type. I would also diagnose her quite safely as bipolar with paranoid schizophrenia, as well as general anxiety and depression. I’ll go into more detail in my report over recommended treatment, I’ve suggested a few medications but obviously it’s sustained rehabilitation and long-term therapy that she needs. I hear things are progressing quite well on that front?”

Briseis nods. “She’s been to all her appointments so far,” she confirms. “Taking her meds. And she’s working well with the Elysian programme.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Giles inclines his head. “She’s a very troubled person, but not a bad one. She’s had a difficult life. However, it’s not actually her I wanted to speak to you about.”

His eyes flicker towards the door he’s just closed. There’s a new quality to the air, growing suddenly tighter and thicker around them with tension. Patroclus finds himself gripping the edges of his seat, suddenly terrified at what Giles might have managed to find out.

“His cognitive results,” Giles begins carefully. “Were the highest I’ve ever tested.”

Briseis’ eyebrows shoot up. “Of any child?” she clarifies.

“Of any adult.”

Briseis swears softly. Patroclus stares at Giles as the words sink into his own brain. Giles hands them the test papers, complete with the markings. They don’t make much sense to Patroclus, but there’s little mistaking the table filled with consistently high numbers.

“He had an IQ of 145,” Giles confirms, tapping at the table. “That surpasses the level of a prodigy. To put it into context, the average is around 120, with gifted post-grands being around125 - 134. Einstein had an IQ of 160.”

“What… _how?!”_ Briseis splutters, dropping the papers like they were hot. “How is that possible? I mean don’t get me wrong, he’s a bright boy but-”

“Not just a bright boy,” Giles shook his head. “A genius. Super genius, even. The only thing stopping him from achieving higher were the stunts he’s received in regards to his emotional and educational development, as a result of the way his life has been. Just imagine the potential that could be unlocked if he had been afforded the same sorts of opportunities as you or I.”

“But this is _insane,”_ Briseis insists. “A _super genius?_ Surely we have to get him into some kind of…I don’t know…specialised learning environment. Like a wonder school, or something.”

“I don’t know if he’ll be taken at Hogwarts,” Patroclus mutters.

“What does this mean?” Briseis demands, ignoring Patroclus which like, fair. “What do we do with this? We can’t just sit on it, we have to help him…help him unlock that potential…achieve everything he’s capable of.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Giles nods. “Really, if he had received the formal education proportionate to his ability I would be suggesting university. Oxford, or Cambridge even. But as his general knowledge and information is so lacking having skipped so much of school, this is of course an impossibility. These specialised institutions you speak of do exist, however they often cost money and I doubt very much the Local Authority will pay for it. As it is, his emotional and psychological development has been so impaired, I would strongly oppose his having any such intensive education until he has firmly started therapy work. In my opinion, it would only serve to further scramble his brain if those foundations remain unstable.”

“That does make sense,” Briseis exhales, as if all the air has just been knocked out of her. “And I suppose that’s the recommendation you’ll be giving in your report? Fine. Okay. Besides that, is he alright?”

“Well,” Giles takes a heavy breath, bracing himself before continuing. “Actually…it’s now that we get to the real point.” He looks at Briseis steadily, grey eyes flashing with calm intelligence behind his glasses. “The assessment also showed that the way Achilles thinks…is not just extraordinary. His levels of intuition and perception were such that can’t be charted. There were moments when he could tell what I was going to say or what was going to come up before even _I_ did. If I wasn’t a man of science I’d be tempted to call him a clairvoyant. It should not have been possible.”

“What are you saying?” Brises asks sharply. “That he’s some kind of psychic or something?”

Giles bobs his head non-committally. “For my dissertation thesis, I did some research into individuals with extra-ordinary psychological capacity,” he says. “The evidence showed that there were in fact some people who showed signs of supra-natural ability. Interestingly, it was much more prevalent in children under eighteen. Most adults who demonstrate similar traits seem to grow out of it, possibly adapting to social norms of processing as they get older. Achilles’ case fits a lot of the people I studied back then, however, it is impossible to say with accuracy what’s going on with only one session. For that, I’d need to study him much more closely over a long period.”

“I see,” says Briseis, although the look on her face suggests she very clearly doesn’t.

“What I’m suggesting,” Giles continues. “Is that I offer my services as Achilles’ psychiatrist slash therapist. I will be able to provide for his emotional support while also investigating his case further. I already have some knowledge and experience in this field, having conducted thorough research and treated similar patients. And of course, I would be perfectly happy to do it pro bono as it would be helping me to further my own academic work.”

“Ah right,” Briseis winces, still sounding like she’s in somewhat of a daze. “I’m really sorry, but I have absolutely no control over that. You’ll have to talk to the Local Authority and be assessed and everything…there’s so much red tape and even then they’re more likely to choose someone from the government registrar rather than a private practitioner.”

“Of course,” Giles inclines his head concedingly. “I will submit my proposal and leave it to their decision. But between you and me, while I’m sure there are many other qualified doctors capable of doing the same, I would be wary of who to trust with this information. I would not want him to be exploited by some scientist or corporate medical body with dubious ethics for their own ends. I don’t even plan on putting this particular part of the assessment in my report until I am entirely sure of what I’m looking at.”

“Yeah that…” Briseis murmurs. “That seems sensible.” She drops her head into her hands and groans, curls peaking out between the gaps of her fingers. “Sorry,” she apologises, voice coming out muffled. “This is just…kind a lot to take in.”

“Quite understandable,” Giles nods, smiling slightly in sympathy before checking his watch. “Sorry to leave you on such a bombshell, but I’m afraid I have to get going.”

“Yes, of course,” says Briseis, regaining enough awareness to stir her to her feet. “I’ll just let you out.”

Patroclus stays put while Briseis shows Giles the door. His legs feel like an army of fiery ants are surging up and down his muscles yet he’s entirely unable to move, fixed to the chair by paralysis. When Briseis returns he doesn’t even look at her, just continues staring blankly into the space in front of him.

“So uh,” says Briseis, closing the door and falling heavily back against it. “What the fuck?”

Patroclus grunts in response. Briseis draws a shaking hand across her forehead, grimacing upon finding it sweaty.

“So looks like dating’s out the window,” she says, moving away from the door to reclaim her chair. “Since he’s obviously a complete crackpot.”

Patroclus startles up, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“Come on,” Briseis appeals. “You heard him. You can’t tell me you seriously think he was plausible?”

“Uh, yeah,” Patroclus nods vigorously. “I honestly did.”

 _“Ugh,”_ Briseis’ head falls back, arms dangling off the edges of the chair. _“Me too._ God. I was so hoping you were gonna say ‘no he was very clearly insane’ then I would have said ‘I know right’ and we would have laughed about it and gone for Starbucks.”

“We can still go for Starbucks,” Patroclus points out.

Briseis shakes her head. “I’m not in the right mind to be able to venture out into public right now,” she says. _“God._ What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck._ Our client’s a super-psychic-Spock-genius.”

She puts her hands over her face, as if in a desperate effort to block out the world. Becoming impatient by the breakdown of a superior when Patroclus is currently experiencing his own intense panic, he kicks her. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Briseis replies. “Both Achilles and science-fiction bullshit are definitely your areas of expertise.”

“Do we tell the Local Authority?” Patroclus persists, having very little patience for bullshit right now, science-fiction or otherwise. “We can’t. You know what they’re like – they’ll panic and put him in some kind of weird facility with mirrors everywhere and fluorescent lighting and they’ll shine torches in his eye and make him dance like a monkey to the national anthem while they tick boxes on their clipboards because they won’t know what to do with him.”

“Yeah,” Briseis says heavily. “That does actually…sound kind of exactly like what Juno would do.” She sighs, quiet for a long time before replying. “We won’t tell them,” she settles on finally. “Dr Giles is the expert. He’ll file his report with everything he thinks they ought to know, and we’ll wait on his discretion to see what further action’s needed.” She hesitates before adding, “But we should tell Demi. She ought to know, she’s sensible and she has his interests at heart.”

Patroclus lets out a breath, shoulders actually sagging with relief. “Ok. Good. Great.”  

“Not Otis though.”

“Fine.”

“So don’t tell him.”

“I won’t,” Patroclus rolls his eyes. He fiddles with his hands, still anxious but at least he can move his legs again. “What do you think about Giles being Achilles’ therapist?”

“Personally, I am so down,” Briseis shrugs, getting to her feet. “If anyone’s gonna be poking around in Achilles’ head it ought to be a person with some understanding of what’s going on. But like I said, it’s not our decision. It’s up to the Local Authority whether they want to consider him.”

She walks over to the door, pulling it open with effort and jerking her head at Patroclus. “Come on,” she says. “Someone’s gotta type all of this up. And it is not going to be me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Relevance the Tinder-related Stories Share With Real Life is Entirely Coincidental and Absolutely No Fault of the Author's
> 
> you're probably tired of me apologising for this taking so long. I'm actually back to work at the same law firm and the hours are drainingggg (not a good excuse i know, I'm a garbage human being)
> 
> Also I feel like this chapter was potentially quite boring, i know there was a lot of technical language and doctor nonsense so reassurance that it wasn't a complete let down is always A*

**Author's Note:**

> I would very much appreciate feedback on this experiment. Any questions about the story or the care system I will try (very hard!) to answer, otherwise if you just want to say you liked it and would like to read more that is, as always, greatly appreciated.
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)


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